Growing Pains
by Ensimismada
Summary: Four days after the explosion, Cole MacGrath wakes up in a hospital, confused and changed. Gameplay begins on day 14. This canon-compliant novel explores the 10 days in between: the battles fought, the friendships tested, and the destiny forged.
1. 1 Zeke

**Warning:** Moderate language and violence (nothing beyond that in the game).

**Storyline:** Takes place before storyline gameplay in inFAMOUS, so no significant spoilers for either game. Mostly canon, with a few minor liberties in how quickly Cole develops some powers and meets some common enemies.

**0. Empire Event**

Explosions are loud. Sounds fill everywhere, every nook and cranny. There's no space for anything but noise. And still more sound rushes into my ears and all thought is crushed by a wall of _boom!_

After the explosion, there's a long, fragile moment of perfect silence. The world is deaf in sudden stillness. Then, a faint, vibrating ring, like pent-up up sound leaking out of my head. Everything seems still and dark; there is no more intense white of searing heat.

Thick, oily smoke filters up from the rubble, seeping into the tiniest pores of my skin. The smell will never, ever leave. Even after all the soot has been scrubbed clean, I will remember the smell of destruction. It will cling to my nightmares, discoloring every moment of happiness with its acrid flavor.

Then there are the ghosts. All the people once beside me on the busy street, talking or laughing or walking while saying nothing at all. The busker on the corner with the poorly-tuned guitar and the two bank tellers gossiping on the bench: these are the people who fell to the explosive sound, the white heat and the black smoke. Laughter and talk and guitar-tuning, silenced in an instant. They fled the world screaming.

My eyes follow their shadows among the rubble-strewn shells of buildings. I see the faintest traces of a thousand ghosts, green-white outlines that fade to nothing in the dying sun.

The only things left in this crater are stillness and a ringing murmur in the ears.

And, somehow, there is me. Deeply changed, I remain.

**1. Zeke**

"Wait – you were at Ground Zero when the explosion happened?" Cole had just woken up, so I was piecing together the story as best I could.

"I was running a job, delivering a package in the Historic District. Next thing I know, I'm waking up in the middle of a crater." His voice was weak as he explained.

"Where were you when I called?"

"In that parking garage, that tall one off Oak and Lime, behind my apartment. Or what was left of that parking garage."

I whistled low. "You _were_ right in the middle of it. How the hell did you survive? And then how'd you get to the bridge?"

"Uh. I walked."

"Damn poor timing, with the way that electric terrorist attack hit the bridge just as you were coming across."

"About that -" Cole began.

Just then, there was a perfunctory knock and Trish entered the hospital room. "Zeke, who are you talking to?" She looked up from her clipboard, eyes going wide to see Cole sitting up in bed.

"Zeke! Why didn't you tell me he was awake?"

"Oh. Right. Trish, Cole's awake."

"I can see that," she said coldly, brushing past me. "Let me take a look."

Trish busied herself with poking and prodding Cole, taking his temperature and making other doctorly observations. I watched from the sidelines. Cole was pale but alert. He didn't take his eyes off Trish the whole time.

After a while, he finally spoke up. "I guess this means we're sleeping in the park."

"Sleep in the park?" I snorted. "Just wait 'til you come by my place."

"Your place? It's just a crater in the ground. I -" Cole's eyes turned inward for a moment, "I was there, Zeke, everything is – it's just gone."

"Didn't I warn you not to underestimate the ol' Dunbar creativity?" It was easier for me to loom over Cole when he was laid out in a hospital bed. Usually he did all the looming and brooding, so it was a nice change of pace.

"Last time I went in for your _creativity_, it involved a cocktail made from margarita mix, tequila, and pickle juice." Cole eyes were shut tight, creased lightly in pain and weariness, but a bitter smile touched the corners of his mouth. It made me happy to see him smile, after all the terrible stuff that had happened in the past few days, especially to him. I was afraid I'd never see him smile again. I knew Trish was thinking the same thing. Her sagging shoulders seemed to pick up a tad as she smiled back at her boyfriend, shaking her head ruefully. She probably remembered the Pickle Juice Incident more clearly than either of us.

The thought of an unsmiling Cole was a scary one. Seeing him hooked up to the machines, pale and sweating, was slowly breaking Trish's heart. I don't know much medicine, but I saw her typically tender personality change to snappy and impatient. Between her teary, red eyes and her constant nervous glances to the unsteady line monitoring Cole's heart rate, it was no secret she was worried. I wished she'd drop the professional doctor act, though. Cole could see straight through it and it just tired her out.

While Trish helped Cole's body recover with medicine, I took it as my job to make his smile come out again. Especially so she'd smile as well. I'd never admit it to either of them, but I lived to see the pair of them happy.

So, through a thin smile of my own, I explained to my brother-in-arms why he would not be sleeping in the street or the park, but rather on the most comfortable couch we could liberate. Much to my surprise, Trish occasionally chimed in. I knew she didn't approve of my plans to freeload on somebody's roof, but, unlike her, I didn't have an office in the hospital to use as a hotel room.

After the explosion levelled our apartment complex, I had bent my expertise in partying on rooftops toward more long-term ends: semi-permanent accommodation. After scouting around between visits to the hospital, I had my eye on a couple of places. Cole was going to help me set up a rooftop pad just as soon as he was up and about. He just didn't know it yet.

Cole's eyes widened as he came to understand the plan. He liked it, just like I knew I would. He has this thing about high places.

"Told you the world's better with a view from the top." His voice was reedy but the small smile was back.

"Yea, well, unlike certain crazies, I plan on using the stairs instead of climbing around on windowsills."

"We're _all_ going to be using the stairs, thank you very much," Trish corrected sternly, taking up the chart at the end of Cole's bed and using her sharpest Doctor Authority voice. "Cole, you're in no shape to even think about those crazy acrobatics. You were in a coma, for goodness' sake!"

"I was?" he murmured weakly. He looked distracted.

"Yes," she said matter-of-factly. "For three and a half days."

"But I'm better now?"

"Well, you're awake," we could hear the relief in her voice. "How do you feel?"

"Tired. Wait – how do you know I was in a coma? I can still remember – "

"No brain activity. EEG a complete flatline."

I couldn't help but laugh. "What else is new?" I asked.

Trish gave me a harsh glare before turning back to Cole "In fact, nearly everything we hooked up to gave no read out at all. We almost took you for dead, except you seemed to have a pulse."

"Seemed?"

"Well, your blood was flowing, even if it took two days before we could get an EKG to measure your heart rate properly. This hospital's pretty close to Ground Zero – the blast must have fried some of the more sensitive equipment."

Cole didn't say anything. He just leaned back into his pillow, turning his head to the wall. Even in the sunlight that filtered through the hospital room window, his skin was growing paler by the second.

Trish reached for his hand. "You should rest. We'll worry about finding you a place to stay after you're well."

I saw Cole's callused fingers close around Trish's hand. I stood up. "Well, I'll just let you two have a moment. Gotta get a cuppa joe."

I had just opened the door to leave the room when I heard Trish shout, half in pain, half in surprise. The power cut out and with it went the fluorescent ceiling lights. Turning around, I saw a scene I will never forget.

Even in semi-darkness, it was good I was wearing my shades. My eyes are a bit funny – too sensitive to light – so I wear sunglasses all the time, even indoors. Cole always made fun of the flashy pair I chose to wear, but I figured if I had to do it, might as well go in style. At any rate, the shades came in real handy just then, because I turned around to see my best friend's body wreathed in electricity, almost like he was wearing a second skin made of lightning. His back arched, his body lifting from the bed on rolled shoulders. In the flashes of light, I could see his eyes and mouth were wide open. His deep, crackling groan was somehow worse than a scream. Sparks were flying everywhere, shooting from the electrical equipment on the side of his bed to impact his skin, the bed, everything. His hands were clenched and glowing bright white, too bright to look at even through my tinted shades.

Cole's limbs alternately went rigid and limp. His body thrashed back and forth, throwing off the quilt. His paper-thin hospital gown scorched as bolts of electricity raced along his body. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the chaos died down. There was no more lightning dancing around the bed, no more river of sparks pouring from his hands. His body collapsed to the mattress, still flickering.

Trish had fallen to the floor beside the bed and after a second of gaping I rushed over to help her. She'd bitten back her shout and now all I could hear were Cole's gasps and the uneven, ticking buzz of electricity. The room was dim. I knelt by Trish's side, holding her shoulders. She seemed fine, just terrified. We stared up at Cole for a long time, silent and wide-eyed. Every moment or two a flickering spark of electricity would flash somewhere along his arms. The whole room smelled like ozone. It was a bitter, almost acidic smell, like spent car batteries.

"Damn," I murmured. Trish was shivering, just slightly. "Damn." I said again. First at the bridge and now electrocuted again? I don't think anybody could be prepared to accept the pattern that was forming. But, like they say, lightning don't strike the same place twice.

"We should –" Trish began in a dazed voice that slowly grew more confident, "we should check on him. You're alright?"

I nodded. As she stood, I held her elbow to make sure she was steady. She turned her head sharply, piercing me with the glare only a woman can give. My hand made a quick retreat from her elbow.

"Right," I said.

Cole's breathing had become even, almost peaceful. Trish hesitated to put her hands on his skin, but peering at his neck she seemed satisfied with his pulse. I had no idea how he was still alive after that light show.

The door opened suddenly and in the light from the room's one window I saw a young, harried-looking black man in a white lab coat peek in. He glanced around the room, eyes widening. The shadowy remains of the electrical equipment were smoldering, half-melted or else scorched beyond recognition. Seeing Trish, he visibly relaxed.

"Doctor Dailey, it seems a circuit has tripped, again. We've got more patients than rooms to put them in and the power's out in the whole building, _again_." His gaze lingered on the stack of wrecked equipment. Trish and I very carefully did not look in that direction.

"Yes, Sam?" Trish prompted.

"Uh..." Sam continued, "Doctor Smith sent me to gather everyone in the board room in –" he glanced at his wrist watch "– three minutes for an emergency meeting."

"Oh, good, meetings," Trish said ruefully. "Love those. Will there be doughnuts?"

"Just coffee, I'm afraid. You sure everything's okay in here?"

"Hmm?" Trish asked. Then, as if she suddenly realized the need to cover up the scene with a hasty lie, she nodded and waved her hand in a dismissive, shooing motion "Yes, it's fine. I was just checking up on Cole – on this patient before seeing to the others next door."

With one last skeptical glance around the room, eying me in particular, the man excused himself, shutting the door again as he left.

"Well, that was fun," came a familiar voice, raspier than ever. I turned to see Cole sitting up in the bed. The were no signs of misbehaving electricity, no sparks or flickers anywhere. If it hadn't been for his burnt dressing gown and the half-melted medical equipment, I would have already begun convincing myself I had imagined the whole scene.

Trish and I stared. He stared back for a moment, then shrugged and began stretching his arms. We continued staring. He cracked his knuckles and then snapped his neck to the side with a sickening click. Trish hated it when he did that. The sound seemed to break her daze. She rushed over, grabbed his wrist – not without flinching when their skin first touched – and held her fingers over his radial artery. She frowned at her watch as she counted.

"I have a meeting to attend down the hall in two minutes." She said briskly, reaching into her lab coat pocket to retrieve a penlight. She leaned into Cole's face and shined the light into his left eye. He pulled away and she clicked her tongue. "Your pulse is rapid but steady. Skin warm to the touch, dry. Pupil dilation and reflex, normal." She snapped her fingers in front of his face. He blinked. She held up three fingers. "How many?"

"One pretty lady, one short Elvis impersonator, –"

"Cole, I don't have time for this –"

"– and three fingers," he finished calmly. For a dude who'd just been barbecued with electricity for the second time in less than a week, he was looking pretty good. Pale, but good.

Trish narrowed her eyes for a minute and then swapped her light for a ballpoint pen. "Good," she snapped, grabbing Cole's clipboard from the basket at the end of his bed. She went to write down her observations, only to find the paper charred beyond recognition. Sighing, she through it onto the bed and walked toward the door. "Just now there was an electric surge. We've lost power to the whole building. They'll need me in the trauma ward," she explained before rounding on me. "Zeke, watch him."

There was nothing to say besides "Yes, ma'am."

"Love you, too," Cole whispered as the door clicked behind her.

Things were awkward after that. Normally, Cole and me, we don't have to say much if we're hanging out. It's one of the things I like about him – there's no obligation to say anything or do anything if you don't feel like it. Just sit on the couch and have a couple of beers, no problem. Feel like going on a rant about the price of oil and how it's all driven by a multinational secret organization? Well, that's okay too. When you get right down to it, Cole's a simple kind of guy.

Except things had taken a turn for the more complicated. I looked at my best friend, sitting in the hospital bed as if he hadn't been electrocuted twice, as if he hadn't somehow survived at the heart of an explosion so powerful it had leveled nearly eight square city blocks. After a minute, he coughed, looked away, and started stretching his arms again. I looked down. No point in staring. He looked the same, except for a scar under his right eye. That was new.

I sat back down in the hospital chair and picked up my comic book but my heart wasn't in it. After a minute or two of running my eyes over the page without seeing a single word, I put the book down and twiddled my thumbs.

"Zeke..." he coughed, cleared his throat, and tried again. "Zeke, was I really out for three days?"

I nodded. "Yea. You remember any of it?"

He didn't say anything, just looked down at his hands, stretching and curling his fingers. It was like the man had never seen his own hands before.

"What's going on out there?"

"Oh, it's about as bad as you'd expect. There's no power, no cops, and the feds have closed off the bridges. Total quarantine."

"No power in the Neon?"

"You kidding? No power anywhere, except the hospitals. All of Empire City's one big black-out. There's been some rioting and lots of looting. Gang activity's been on the rise since the blast but mostly people are holing up and waiting things out." I didn't add that things were looking to get a lot worse before they got any better.

"...and you're planning on living on somebody's roof?" He asked quietly.

"Always got a plan, don't I? Never know when a conspiracy will come to light and everything'll really hit the fan. I got some stuff stashed away here and there, emergency rations mostly, but these past couple of days I've been thinking more about the longer term, seeing the bigger picture. Sitting in a hospital room watching you snore all day is pretty boring, you know that?"

I was trying to get him to smile. Or at least stop staring at his hands.

"I figure you'll need a place to crash too, so why not set up a rooftop camp? It'll be like the good old days." Our most recent rooftop party had been only two weeks ago, but somehow everything before the blast seemed like it was going to be 'the good old days' from here on out.

From somewhere downstairs there came the sudden cough and deep thrum of generators kicking in. An emergency light in the hall flickered on and then became steady. A few people cheered in the room next door. I got a better look at Cole.

He was looking fine. He was awake and he wasn't so pale as before. Hell, I was still trembling but he didn't even have goose pimples. He squirmed a bit as I stared at him.

"I'm not a lab rat, Zeke."

"Maybe not, but you just pulled off a hell of a circus freak act."

It was Cole's turn to pin me down with a cold stare. I'll admit it was a pretty dumb choice of words, but it wasn't as if I'd just insulted the man's mother.

"I was awake."

"What? The whole time?"

"Not the past – three days did she say? Not the whole time. But just now, when all the electronics went haywire. I was awake for that."

Damn. "You okay?"

"If you're asking 'Did it hurt?' then, yea, I'm fine. Didn't hurt at all." He was looking at his hands again. After a minute he added, "I think I might have hurt Trish though."

"Shocked her? I don't think so. She shouted pretty good but you saw her hands when she was using that pen light – no scars or burns or anything. I think you just scared her. Hell, scared me too."

"Zeke, I gotta get out of here."

"I'm not so sure that's a good idea."

"You heard the nurse – he said they have more patients than rooms. Besides, you and I both know I caused the circuits to overload. It's dangerous having me around when people are hooked up to pacemakers and iron lungs and who knows what else."

I chewed my bottom lip. I knew he was feeling cooped up and was liable to say anything just to get get out of the confines of the hospital bed, but at the same time he had a point. Trish wouldn't admit it if asked, but I knew there was definitely something going on with Cole, something outside the realm of medical knowledge. In fact, I was eager to see more of it in action.

"I'm not so sure you should be walking around. Can you even stand up?" His was not the face of a man who'd been in a coma for three days.

"I feel fine, Z. I was tired before but... now, I'm fine. Can you at least get me my clothes?"

I felt my cheeks burn as I was suddenly reminded that he was wearing a paper apron, now burnt. At least they'd left his pants on.

"Yea, man, I can do that for you." I looked around the room.

"I think they keep personal effects at the front desk."

"Oh. Be right back."

I came across Trish when walking down the stairs. Nearly bumped into her, with the emergency lights so dim through my shades.

"Zeke? What are you doing here? You're supposed to be watching Cole."

"He's fine, Trish. I'm just running down to get his stuff."

"His stuff?"

"Personal effects, you know. Whatever he had on him when he came to the hospital."

"Zeke, his clothes and shoes are in the bag beside his bed."

"They are?" Our eyes met and without a word, we raced back to the room where we'd left Cole.

He wasn't there, of course. The whole "fetch my stuff for me" was a wild goose chase designed to give him time to bail. Trish scanned the room and ran off in a huff, pausing just long enough to give me the evil eye again. I felt like I'd gotten more than my fair share of her withering looks. It wasn't my fault he tricked me. I scouted the room a bit more carefully, shivering as a cold breeze came in the window. I grabbed his bag from beside the bed and poked through it. I knew he wouldn't mind.

It was a brown paper bag, mostly empty. They'd left him in his pants on the hospital bed, thank goodness, so it was just his shirt, his shoes and socks, and the contents of his pockets. His wallet was there, black leather thin and worn as usual. His cell phone, on the other hand, was completely wrecked. After the light show in the hospital, scorch marks blackened the display and the plastic of the buttons had melted together. His watch was in similar shape, the glass face completely cracked. A few charred coins rattled in the bottom bag; I slipped them in my back pocket absentmindedly. That was it.

Looking around the dim hospital room, there was nothing left to do. I shut the window, gave the chair where I'd slept the past three nights one last hateful glance and shut the door behind me. Guess it was time to get gone. If Cole wanted to talk, he'd show up.

Unless he was dying in a gutter.

* * *

><p>The complete story comes has just over 50,000 words, including a climax battle, plenty of character development, and some over-arching themes. Most chapters are somewhat shorter than chapter one.<p>

Please leave a review to remind me to post the next bit.


	2. 2 Cole

**2. Cole**

From the roof of a neighboring building, I watched Zeke leave the hospital by the back entrance. The breeze was chilly for a summer evening but as a reminder that I was out of the hospital bed and moving around under my own steam it felt good.

I wanted to talk to Trish but there would be no way to get her alone. Hopefully, she'd think Zeke had been on my side, that he intentionally used the whole "getting his stuff at the front desk" routine as a cover story so I could make an escape. He'd often used a similar act in various attempts to distract Trish from the fact that I was out climbing yet another tall object. Today, like always, she would see through his story, get angry at him for a while, and then it would blow over, water under the bridge like always. In the meantime the ruse would give me room to breath and time to think.

There was a lot to think about. My head was swimming, but with a sensation of power, not pain. I felt like I could run a marathon, like I could swim to the Neon and back. And, I admitted to myself, I had a feeling I knew why I felt so strong.

I lowered myself to street level, sliding from window sill to window sill. Ever since I was a kid, climbing gave me a buzz. Every fence and wall was a puzzle, a challenge to conquer. I wanted to see behind the walls, go beyond the fences, and I wanted to do it faster and smarter than anyone else. I trained myself to be the guy who could get anywhere by climbing, jumping, tumbling, and tight-rope walking.

It was a reckless hobby. I wasn't interested in breaking into buildings or high security areas, but the cops didn't know that. They saw a young punk scaling walls, doing something different from the typical herd of people they kept tabs on. To cops, my pastime shouted "he's up to something." I grew used to unwanted attention from the police, especially when they were communicating with their pals by walkie-talkie. Still, I could usually outmaneuver them and I was never caught doing anything seriously wrong.

Finding the money to pay for the occasional trespassing ticket and hiding the citation papers from Trish were trickier. Zeke was good for bailing me out of the drunk tank every now and again even if half the time he was the one who had goaded me into pulling the stunt in the first place.

Zeke was about as good a friend as anyone could ask for. He and I had lived together straight out of high school, until things got serious with Trish and I moved in with her. He liked Trish a lot, but I don't think he ever forgave me for moving out. Amy had never forgiven Trish for doing the same. Nevertheless, the warm feeling between Trish and Zeke was mutual and the three of us hung out a lot, cooking burgers up on Zeke's rooftop and watching movies on the tube. Even the recent memories felt like a lifetime ago.

Zeke was walking through the hospital parking lot, carrying a paper shopping bag. I decided to follow him from a distance. I wasn't convinced it was safe to get close to him. I could take electric shocks, but that didn't mean he could. Even if I avoided causing another light show, I wasn't sure of what to say. "Hey, man, I think I've got some freaky electric powers" didn't have much of a ring to it.

Zeke's slick-haired head was down, watching the ground. I padded behind him on my bare feet, staying a few car rows behind. As I moved to squeeze between a red pick-up truck and an ancient, faded Cadillac, things went wrong fast. I felt the surge before I saw it and only just had the time to tense my muscles as car alarms went off in all directions.

Electricity was streaming out of the truck and the Cadillac, lancing through the air to strike my chest. Somehow the power was channeled deep into my body and it felt _good_. Reflexively, I relaxed my muscles. I felt myself open to the current, drawing more. The streams of lightning thickened momentarily and the flow increased before it flickered out. The two vehicles settled on their tires, engine blocks releasing hollow ticks as the hot metal cooled. Blue-white sparks were playing over the surface of my skin as I spread my fingers wide. I was aware of these tiny sparks and at the same time I felt more energy deeper, a charge swirling throughout my body. With a gentle push, I sent some of the energy upward and outward, along my arms. My hands began to shine, bright light constantly shifting and flickering. Still no pain.

Staring at my fingertips, I tried pulling the way I had pulled from the cars, only more gently. The sparks died down and I felt the energy retreat back along my arms, dissipating into my reserve. It made me jumpy, flighty. Everything was on a hair trigger.

From behind I heard a nervous cough. I jerked my head back, raising my hands in front of my face. Unbidden, energy rammed into my fists and they flared to electric life, sending out streamers of electricity in all directions. Whenever the current struck a car or the ground, the cords of lightning grew thicker for an instant before dying out. I felt each one as it drained power from me.

"Woah, man! Watch out!" Zeke jumped back, but not fast enough. A bolt hit the ground beneath his feet and he fell, hunched and moaning.

Not knowing how to stop the flow, I turned and ran. Power was streaming out of me, shocking cars and setting off alarms as I went. There was so much charge and nowhere to put it. I fought the urge to push the electricity out of me, to release it into the air and the ground. Running helped. By the time I was several rows of cars away from where I'd left Zeke on the ground, the lightning had died down to a few flickering sparks and I felt completely winded. I bent over, bracing myself on my knees and panting. I hoped to hell that nobody was looking out their hospital room window; if they were, they were getting quite a show.

My body shimmered with electricity now and again. I felt light-headed. The palms of my hands itched, causing my fingers to twitch. After a minute of breathing heavily, I stood up and leaned against a nearby car. The drained feeling persisted and I didn't like it. It reminded me of how I'd felt in the hospital bed just before I'd made a lightning show out of all the equipment. At that time, I'd had no more idea what was going on than Zeke or Trish, but as soon as I had felt the energy recharging me, I had realized that draining the equipment was my ticket out. Lying in bed half-dead, I had opened up like I'd opened up to the car batteries just now, letting the power pour in and somehow storing it.

I wanted to do that again. My body felt empty and weak but I could something about it. Only this time, a bit more control was in order. I lowered my hands onto the hood of the nearest car. I felt a trace of power inside, presumably the battery. My body wanted that energy and as soon as I opened up, the energy came. I tried to keep the flow slow and steady, but the electricity was unruly and it felt too good taking it all in a rush.

As I made my way back to where I'd left Zeke, I drained three more cars dry. I guess their owners would be walking home.

If they still had homes to walk to.

If they were still alive.

I breathed a sigh of relief to see Zeke awake, leaning against the pick-up. When he saw me he turned his back, limping away without a word.

"Wait up, Zeke!" I jogged toward him. "Hey, I'm sorry. I have no idea what's going on either." He didn't look at me.

A few yards later, at the entrance to an alleyway that fed into the parking lot, he stopped, panting and swaying slightly. He still had the paper bag crumpled in his hand. I stayed a few feet back.

When he didn't move, I tried again. "You okay?"

He turned around slowly. Standing there in torn jeans and a hospital gown with sparks flying from my hands, I must have looked pretty strange. When he saw me his face was somewhere between terror and hate. I focused on my hands, trying to pull as much energy out of them as possible without initiating another draw from a nearby car. It was my first time seeing a person react to me with open, unmasked fear. It hurt most to see that fear writ on the face of a close friend.

What was happening to me was beyond belief. I needed Zeke's help if was going to make it through the day without losing my sanity. But first, it looked like I had to win back his trust. To do that, I needed to explain the few things I was being to understand.

I sighed and began.

"Zeke, we need to talk..."


	3. 3 Zeke

**3. Zeke**

I wasn't sure if I was more surprised that he'd somehow shot me with electricity or that he'd decide to show his face in public wearing a burnt hospital gown and no shoes. He was saying something about finding a place to talk, but it was hard to focus on the words when he looked so inhuman.

Like all manly men, it was easiest to hide my fear behind anger and shouting. "You betrayed my trust – your stuff was in the room all along!"

I flung the bag at him. Having eaten the tail end of his lightning show a few minutes ago, the tight muscles of my knees and stomach urged me to put a little extra heat into the throw and a little extra venom into my voice.

He caught the bag easily. "Zeke, I had to get out of there. And what is this 'betrayed my trust' crap? I'm meeting up with you right now. You saw me ten minutes ago."

The hurt look on his face took the wind out of the sails of my anger. "How the hell did you get out of the hospital dressed like a zombie patient, anyhow?"

He shrugged."Climbed."

"Of course. Of course you climbed. This is why Trish told me to watch you, because your brains are so completely fried you think now is a good time to go climbing."

He stretched his arms behind his back before bending his long legs into a crouch. Then he stood up, fishing his shirt out of the bag and walking past me into the alley. As he discarded the hospital gown to put on the shirt, I saw not a single burn or scratch anywhere on his back. Had he really been at Ground Zero when the blast happened? When we first saw him after the blast, he'd had a horrible burn on the back of his neck. Trish had coated it with foul-smelling salve twice a day before carefully replacing the bandages. Those bandages were gone and the skin was perfectly smooth.

There was no sign of the sparks he'd sent flying a moment ago. I wanted to ask him what the hell had happened, but Cole's the sort of guy who can ignore an elephant in the room forever by choosing not to talk about it. I was pretty sure I had an idea about what might be going on, but if he wasn't ready to talk about it, he wouldn't. Fine by me.

"Cole, c'mon man. What am I supposed to think? You shouldn't even be healthy enough to walk and you go climbing out a four storey window?"

"Five," he corrected darkly, crouching on his heels again. "And you know height doesn't matter -"

" 'Height doesn't matter if you don't fall.' Yea, I remember you telling me." Before I could finish he'd jumped straight up from the squat and caught the lip of a fire escape, neat as can be. He did five pull-ups, then ten, each more quickly. He switched his grip to overhand and went at it again. I quickly lost count, but I noticed I didn't hear him panting for breath.

"C'mon, man. Get down already."

He pulled upward sharply and flipped his grip again before dropping his left arm to his side.

"Why? You wanna talk, let's talk." He continued the pull-ups one handed. One-handed pull-ups had been a goal of his all summer; he wouldn't shut up about them and how they'd help improve his 'climbing form'. And here he was, talking to me through what must have been a pull-up every three seconds.

"Zeke, I feel different." He switched to hanging by his left arm, again pumping up and down. It wasn't natural.

"'Different?'"

"Antsy. Energetic. This is stupid," he said, dropping lightly to the ground. Like always, he bent his knees deeply as he landed. Only this time, I thought I noticed a flicker of light around his bare feet. "I could do that for an hour and not get tired."

"Really?"

"Probably."

"That ain't right, man."

"Scares the hell outta me. But... it is pretty cool." It was good to see him smile in earnest.

In the end, he was right: it was cool. Scary? You bet.

But pretty damn cool.


	4. 4 Cole

**4. Cole **

Zeke had driven his truck to the hospital and parked up the street – by some miracle the roads were mostly clear of traffic, even with the electricity to the stoplights out. As soon as I reached for the door of the front cab to climb in, sparks jumped out from my hand and flickered over the carriage. Neither of us was keen on riding in a gasoline-powered metal box with me shedding sparks like a Fourth of July firework, so we decided to hoof it.

Zeke was grinning like a kid on his birthday. "Wait'll you see this roof. Prime real estate, you're gonna love it."

He worked in the Neon as bowling alley repairman and knew the area pretty well. Though he didn't bother giving directions as we walked, I trusted him when he said he had a good spot picked out. Besides, I had a hunch as to where he was heading. As a bike courier and – I'll admit it – an obsessive parkour enthusiast, I knew every inch of the city, especially the roofs. Even if Zeke's roof was a bust, finding another would be simple enough.

We didn't talk on the way over. I used the time to very carefully experiment. I pushed power into my hands until they shimmered faintly and then pulled it back. I pushed into one hand but not the other and then switched sides. A gentle push got the current started and then all of my stored charge would begin to flow, rapidly building in intensity, causing me to back-pedal by pulling it all in again immediately. The constant flux was disorienting, so I focused on limiting the flow to minuscule voltages. After a few minutes of practice I had mostly eliminated the surging sensation and gained better control of the volume of electricity manipulated with each push or pull. I could pool the energy in either hand or both, getting it to linger there and only occasionally arc back to my body or to the ground.

It was six blocks to the place Zeke had in mind. I saw him watching me out of the corner of his eye. He didn't saying anything, just kept his distance and matched my stride. By the time I'd begun focusing power into the tips of individual fingers, making the sparks arc from fingertip to fingertip in a careful dance, I was feeling pretty satisfied with myself. Zeke coughed and muttered, "Quit it, man. People are staring."

So they were. Not wanting the attention, I stuffed my hands into my pant pockets and walked the rest of the way with my head down, mimicking the hasty shuffle most citizens of Empire City had adopted since the blast.

Less focused on myself, I finally had a chance to look around. In some ways, it was the city I knew from childhood: the streets were the same, the skyline of the Neon was the same shape, if blacked out. It was the _feel_ that was different. The few people who were on the street were skittish. Most were walking in pairs or small groups, clumped together with their eyes downcast. None of the passing cars played loud music. All the storefronts were closed and barred and many had been broken into. There was trash everywhere and a larger-than-usual number of people lying on the sidewalk. I stepped around them carefully, but they didn't move or beg for change. All the alleyways loomed like dark, hungry mouths.

As soon as we arrived and I agreed it was a good spot, Zeke went back for his truck, saying something about a couch. When he was gone, I scoped out the rooftop for the best views and the areas best protected from the wind. Zeke had been right, I loved it. It was a good choice of rooftop, with easy access from two fire escapes and with an unblocked view of Empire Bay. Plus, the buildings on either side were just one storey taller and they were commercial warehouses, not apartments. It wasn't likely anybody would notice us setting up our little camp.

I sat down for a while, experimenting again with my stored charge of electric power. When I tried pushing into one hand while simultaneously pulling from the other, I discovered that I could pass electricity between my palms like a dealer shuffling cards. I practiced pushing energy from right hand to left in compact balls of lightning. It was difficult to control, almost slippery. Half the time, the energy arced into the ground, dissipating at my feet. After a while of fiddling, I began to grow antsy again. I decided to check out the alleyways below the building. Hopefully Zeke would be back soon.

Even before the blast, this hadn't been the nicest neighborhood in the Neon. As a delivery guy, I'd often taken whatever alleys I could as shortcuts to avoid downtown traffic, but this was one borough where I'd think twice about ducking into an alley at night. Zeke's earlier comments about increased rioting and looting came to mind. It wasn't quite dusk yet.

I slipped down the fire escape, dropping from top of the first storey landing to the ground in a neat tuck. My knees handled the normally jarring impact smoothly. I'd never felt so fluid, so tuned into my body. I bounced from foot to foot, rolling my ankles and shaking out my wrists before taking off in a slow jog around the building.

I turned the first corner to find a huge pile of trash blocking the way. On a whim I sped up slightly, angled for the lowest part of the pile, and took a running leap. I sailed over the top with nearly a yard of clearance, again landing lightly. It was athleticism of the sort I could only dream of a week ago. I smiled and punched the air a few times, imagining I was Rocky training for a big fight.

Turning the next corner, I ran into a short man in the shadow of the building. We both fell to the ground, the skull-patterned hood of his blood-red sweatshirt obscuring his face.

I rolled forward onto my lower back, jumping to my feet and moving toward him. "Sorry. Just out for a jog; didn't see you."

He didn't move. His breathing was raspy, almost bubbly. I noticed the tattered edges of his sweatshirt were stained black. I hadn't injured him by running into him, had I? There'd been no sparks...

He groaned, clutching his gut. I stared. Was he sick? What would Trish do in this situation?

"Hey, you okay?" I reached out for his shoulder but before I got close, he whipped a hand from the depths of his jacket. Metal glinted coldly in the dwindling light and he snarled, slashing the air between us with the knife.

Both of my hands sparked up. I vaguely remembered my country-bred grandmother's admonishment to always run from muggers instead of putting up a fight, but it seemed my body had other ideas. Lightning swirled around my fists.

As the crouched figure took another slash, I grabbed for his wrist. There was a dazzling flash and I felt a surge of power flow through my hand into his body. We both shouted: him in pain and me in surprise. Whatever I'd just done, it had winded me.

The knife clattered to the ground.

In an instant, he changed his plan of attack, leaping directly at me with fingers curled like claws, knife forgotten. My hands flew up to deflect his full-body blow to the side. A thin wall of electricity built up between us. As he crashed into me with what only could have been drug-fueled strength, the field of energy pushed back harder. The dark man's body flew backward, hitting the brick alley wall with a heavy crunch before sliding to the litter-strewn asphalt.

I swayed on my feet, panting. My hands were hanging at my sides from drooped shoulders, sparking and flaring uncontrollably. The man wasn't moving. There was no more sound of harsh breathing. My eyes darted side to side.

I had just killed a man. I hadn't meant to, and it was in self-defense, but the deed was done. I was alone in an alley with the man I'd killed.

It was nearly dark. What should I do with the body? Should I call the police? What would I tell them? "I'm sorry, Officer, but it was my strange electric powers, not me." No one would believe it._**I**_ didn't believe it.

I leaned in to look at the corpse. Under the red hood was a face barely recognizable as human. It was a kid, maybe sixteen years old. He was pale and emaciated, with black dirt caking his face. His eyes were sunken with deep purple-red shadows. He smelled of rot. Judging from the other people I'd seen lying in the street on the way over, one more body in an alley would not be out of place. But he was still a kid. He was still dead.

I hadn't asked for this ability, whatever it was. My sparking hands had become weapons and I certainly was not ready to handle a responsibility like that. What if the next time I accidentally shocked Zeke, with more power? What if Trish startled me and I somehow used that wave of electricity to push her off the roof?

Haunted by these terrifying thoughts, I made a promise to myself. If I couldn't get rid of this power, my first priority would be to learn to control it.


	5. 5 Zeke

**5. Zeke**

I jogged back to hospital as quick as I could, sticking to the main streets. It was getting dark. Thankfully, Bessie was in one piece when I arrived and she started without a hiccup. I'd already piled a couch into the bed of the truck earlier that day with the help of Jim, one of the nurses. Somebody had left the used but perfectly good couch lying on the sidewalk and it seemed a shame to let it go to waste, especially when no resources were coming into the city.

I drove back to the new pad, whistling to myself. It wasn't worth trying the radio, the airwarves were flooded with complete lies created by the feds to assure the outside world that all was peachy in Empire City. Too bad that Voice of Survival guy didn't have his own radio broadcasting equipment. Being pretty good with electronics, as I drove I thought about how I might contact him to see if I could hook him up. I kept to main streets, but even those were dark by the time I arrived. Hopefully Cole had played it smart and kept a low profile. Hopefully he was resting.

I parked under the fire escape in the alley, beside a mound of overflowing trash bags. Old food mingled with a clump of red rags, left to rot. Pew-ee!

I climbed out of the truck, knees still sore from getting zapped earlier. Electric shocks may make Cole feel like a spring chicken, but I'd had more than my fill. I whistled the two-note call of a bobwhite and wasn't surprised when Cole called back from the top of the fire escape. By the time I'd lowered the tailgate and was working on the tie-down straps, he'd climbed down to lend a hand.

Cole helped me haul the couch up the back fire escape. And by "helped me haul," I mean exactly that: Mr. Electrocuted-Coma-Man carried half a couch up eight storeys. Even given all the breaks we were taking, I couldn't shake the feeling that something infinitely unfair was at work. How come it's never the short, pudgy, Elvis-looking guys who get the superpowers? Why do we always gotta be the side-kicks?

By the time we wrestled the hulking beast of a spotted brown couch into position, Cole seemed to be slowing down. He was pale though he wasn't sweating. I was beat myself. We both sat down on the couch, taking in the view. The moon was already above the horizon. It was kinda pretty, now that I had the excuse to admire it a bit.

After a few minutes of silence, he started doing the thing with his hands again. Little sparks lit up the tips of his fingers: thumb to pointer, pointer to middle finger, middle finger to index, index to pinkie and back to thumb again. The funny smell was back in the cool air. I shivered. I guess I was expecting there to be some sort of sound, like the sparking noises made by the machines in mad doctors' laboratories on TV. This stuff Cole was doing was quiet. It was equally eerie and mesmerizing. I couldn't stop staring.

After a minute or two, it was like he suddenly realized I was watching him. He put his hands in his lap and looked out over the city.

"No, man, you don't gotta stop."

He glanced at me with the stupidest look on his face. Embarrassment, I guess. Shame.

"Sorry about earlier."

"Like you said, you needed to get out of the hospital. I've covered for you plenty of times before; it's no big deal."

He shook his head. "No. I meant I'm sorry for shocking you, in the parking lot."

I laughed, but it was a nervous sort of laugh. "You didn't mean it."

He gave me the look again.

"You didn't, did you?"

"Of course not. But does that matter? It still happened. You still got hurt. I'm responsible for that."

"I'm not so sure about that. If you weren't controlling it, it's not your fault, s'far as I'm concerned." With a thousand-yard stare like that, he needed a distraction. "Hey, do that again, will ya? It's pretty cool."

With a sigh, he splayed his hands. Between each finger was a tiny rope of lightning. As he exhaled, the lights moved toward his fingertips, shattering into tiny sparks.

"It doesn't hurt?"

He shook his head. "Not at all. I can feel it but... No, no pain. More like I've got something in me and it wants to get out."

"Huh," I grunted. "Weird."

"Tell me about it."

"That all you got?" By way of super-powers, it was a bit lame.

He arched his eyebrows at me in disbelief but then squeezed each hand into a tight fist. Holding them open again about a foot apart, he built up a charge in one hand. Then, with a barely audible grunt, he shot the lightning through the air into the other hand where it was absorbed. Again, I was glad to be wearing my shades.

"Huh," I said again. "That was pretty cool. Hey, I've got an idea." I pulled a penny out of my pocket and flicked it into the air at him. "Catch."

He caught the coin one-handed and then looked at me.

"You think you could hit that?"

"You mean, in the air?"

"Yea."

Cole shrugged. "I dunno. I haven't tried shooting anything." A shadow passed over his face and he added softly, "I try to keep the sparks to myself."

"Well, just do what you did before, only don't catch it. Here, try this first." I pulled out a quarter and set it on the ground in front of him. "Hit that."

I'd never seen a man so skeptical of a quarter in his life. It was like a slots junkie who was sure – absolutely sure – that when he went for that quarter, it would disappear. Or maybe that it would turn around and bite him on the finger.

He held up his hand in front of him. It started to glow, sparks flying out. I bit back the urge to say "This is so damn cool."

Then the electricity faded again and he brought his hand down. I frowned. What happened?

"Zeke? Could you maybe not, uh, stare at me quite so much?"

Of course. Peer pressure makes even the best man crack.

"Yea, man, no worries. In fact, I gotta go get something from the truck," I lied. "Be right back." I got up and walked to the fire escape, cool as a cucumber. I let my feet fall heavily for the first flight of stairs. When I reached the landing, I turned around and crept back up, peeking over the low brick wall that formed the roof's perimeter.

He was standing with his back to me, passing a ball of lightning back and forth between his hands, juggling it. My best friend, the human light socket. A lot of crap had gone down in the past four days, but at least one cool thing came of it. One incredible miracle.

After a moment he stopped juggled and held his right hand out, aimed low at the ground. I leaned in. Here comes the good part. His shoulders went rigid and the arcs of electric energy grew larger, a flurry of activity up and down his right arm. His hand got so bright I couldn't look at it directly, even with my shades on. As I turned my head slightly and lifted my hand to block some of the light, the ball of energy shot from his palm to the floor, shattering into a swirl of sparks.

"Yea!" I cheered.

Cole spun on his heels, bringing his hands up and charging them in the instant it took to drop into a defensive crouch. Why was he so jumpy? Did waking up in the aftermath of a bomb do that to a guy?

"Zeke?" he called. His voice was gravelly, wary.

I held my hands in the air. "Don't shoot."

What a lame line. Only a dumb-witted side-kick would have a line like that.

Cole's hands dimmed as they dropped to his sides. His shoulders fell to what was becoming a customary sag.

"C'mon up," he said, sitting down on the couch again. I took my time in sitting next to him. The rooftop tar was melted where he'd hit it with the juice. The quarter was nowhere in sight.

Without looking at me, he leaned forward, forearms on his knees, palms up. He closed his eyes. Electricity started pooling in his palms again. He pressed his left hand into his right, pooling the energy. Cupped in his palm it looked almost liquid. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the penny I'd tossed him earlier and flicked it high into the air. Bracing his charged right hand with his left, he tracked the coin's trajectory and fired. The bolt of lightning flew straight as my eyes followed it into the distance. It struck the side of a building across the street, raining a shower of sparks. The remains of the penny fell to the roof, molten slag.

"Damn," I heard myself say. "_Damn_."


	6. 6 Zeke

**6. Zeke**

Cole leaned back into the couch, staring at his hands with dead eyes. Normally the two of us could go for hours without talking, but he looked like a man who never wanted to speak another word in his life. I was fresh out of clever things to say. What is there to talk about when your apartment is a ruins, your city has gone lawless under emergency quarantine, and your best friend shoots lightning from his hands?

Answer is: you don't say much at all. I don't know how long we were sitting there before I fell asleep on my end of the couch but when I came to, shivering with cold, it was dark and he was sitting in the exact same position, watching his upturned hands flicker. A statue of a meditating Buddha might have moved more. And had a less stony face.

"You alright, man?"

He grunted.

I nodded absently. "Guess you got a lot on your mind. Listen, in the hospital, while you were out, you sorta... talked to yourself. Trish said folks in comas don't do that too much, but I heard ya." I didn't have the heart to tell him that all he'd ever said was "I'm sorry." Over and over, in between brief shouts and sometimes even sobs. It had been heartbreaking to sit in that damned uncomfortable hospital chair, not able to do anything but wait and listen to Cole's anguish. I decided that now was not the time to bring all that up. In the end, I just asked, "Bad dreams?"

He still wouldn't meet my gaze. He looked tired – not in a physical way, but drained emotionally. "After the blast, I thought it was screams that woke me up, not the sound of a helicopter. I heard people crying out, in serious pain. People dying. I finally come to and get to my feet and there's dust in my eyes and I can smell smoke, but nobody's screaming. I woke up in a crater – in the middle of a _fucking_ _crater – _of course there was no one left alive to scream. There weren't even any buildings left standing. It was like I woke up on the Moon. I thought the voices must have been my ears ringing or something.

"But then, at the bridge... when I got electrocuted," he stopped again. "When I got electrocuted, I could hear things. People screaming in pain. I smelled smoke and blood. I heard coughing and crying and pleading. The more I blacked out and stopped feeling my own pain, the more I heard the voices. After a while the people's noises faded away. That's when the normal hospital sounds starting coming through. Trish," he paused, shaking his head slightly, "I heard Trish. I knew you were there, too, man. Thanks for that, by the way."

I rubbed the back of my head, careful not to mess up the 'do. "It's nothing," I said.

He nodded, looking out over the dark city. "It was like I had to find my way back. You both helped with that." The sun was setting. I heard a brief, sharp bark of automatic gunfire in the distance. "Sorry I took so long."

"You never were too good at following directions. In fact, as I recall, you always wanted to go _over_ the buildings, instead of around them."

He almost laughed. "Yea, that's pretty much right."

"Still feeling okay? Maybe up to stretching your limbs a bit?"

"Physically? My body is fine. Great, even. Alert, energetic. But I am tired. And confused as hell. What happened, Zeke? How did I survive?"

His pale eyes were pleading. I looked down, shifting uncomfortably. I sure as hell didn't have the answers. But at least I could be there for him as he tried to sort through things. Trish was busy saving lives over at the hospital, so somebody had to step up to help a brother out.

"You know what you always told me, when I was bummed about some lady who didn't work out too well? You always told me to work it off. Get some exercise. How you feel about that right now?" I knew Trish wouldn't have been happy to hear that suggestion – I was supposed to be making sure he took it easy. But Cole was not a bed rest sort of guy. Just looking at his face I knew he'd go crazy if I left him there on the couch, alone with his thoughts and without even the boob tube for a distraction.

He looked over the darkened city. "You sure it's safe?"

I laughed. "Since when have you been worried about safety? I thought you lived to climb higher and pull off ever-more-stupid stunts."

He shook his head ruefully but stood up, stretching his back. He paused for a moment, looking at his hands. The dancing sparks along his arms winked out. Maybe he was learning to control it after all. The deal with the penny had been cool.

"Will you call Trish?" he asked over his shoulder, back to me. "Tell her I'm okay?"

"Yea, man, sure thing. Though.. You think she'll mind me calling at, uh," I fished my cell phone from my pocket and glanced at the time, "at four in the morning?"

"Just call her, Zeke." He walked over to the rooftop edge and stepped onto the low wall. Standing on one foot, he leaned forward, out into space. Then, spinning around, he switched feet and leaned back, kicking out into the air over the alley eight storeys below. With another quick turn he reversed position again, leaning over the gap. It was a familiar routine, a sort of ritual he did before going for a climb. I think he did it just to remind himself of the danger.

"You got it, Brother. I'll call her. Also, you might not want to mention Amy when Trish is around. She... she died in the blast."

He padded over to the fire escape, lowering himself down the ladder before I had the chance to second-guess the wisdom in letting him leave in the middle of the night.

"Thanks, Zeke. Be back later."

* * *

><p>Please leave a review to let me know what you think. Next chapter: action on the rooftops!<p> 


	7. 7 Cole

**7. Cole **

The only times I felt calm were when I was climbing and when I was with Trish. My idea of the perfect day involved scaling a bridge or two and then biking across town to a rooftop cuddle with her at sunset, cooking dinner before settling into the couch. I didn't want complications. I didn't want to have to think long-term, to plan my career or whatever. I just wanted to go wherever I wanted and to be with my girl when I got home, consequences be damned.

I got halfway down the fire escape before I remembered what lay at the bottom, waiting. The thought of seeing the junkie kid's dead body turned my stomach, but if I went back up to face Zeke and tell him why I'd chickened out, he'd have second thoughts and would try to keep me up there. I wished I'd taken the other fire escape.

The streets were dark but there was enough moonlight to highlight another fire escape on the building next door. If I jumped from the railing of this fire escape, it was only an eight foot gap to the closest landing, slightly lower.

I was still feeling antsy, still jumpy, but I wasn't stupid. The lightning in me somehow made me stronger but it didn't mean I was invincible. I climbed down the fire escape until I was just above the last landing. I wasn't more than twenty-five feet above the ground now, an easy fall. I shook out my muscles once more, already feeling limber.

I climbed over the railing and swung my feet to the other side, bracing them on the lower rail. Visualizing the jump, I steadied my breathing and focused my eyes on my target. Then I pushed off.

Light flashed beneath my feet and I launched with greater speed than expected. Arms flailing, I cleared the alley easily but was too high when I reached the opposite fire escape. Instead of dropping onto the landing, I slammed face-first into the ladder a full eight feet higher than I'd intended. Stunned, I grabbed at the rungs of the ladder and missed. I tumbled through opening in the landing floor straight to the pavement a storey below.

I had just enough time to wince before my knees slammed into the cold, hard ground. There was no sickening crack as bones snapped. Sparks radiated from my legs but nothing hurt. The ground beneath my kneecaps was warm, almost smoldering.

After a stunned moment, I realized I was laughing. I wobbled as I stood, patting my knees and legs in disbelief. I squatted and stood again, bending my legs deeply. My kneecaps were intact. No blood, no broken bones, and no pain. I glanced up through the metal grate that formed the first landing of the fire escape. From the top of the ladder through the hole in the flooring was about a twenty-five foot drop.

Only twenty-five feet. I tried to tell myself it was a lucky fall. People fall from heights twice as tall and survive all the time. It all depends on the landing, I told myself. The key is to have the muscles loose, like how drunk drivers receive fewer injuries in car accidents because they're too boozed to clench their muscles.

But drunk drivers and lucky fall victims don't impact in a shower of electric energy. I already knew that electricity healed me and that I had somehow survived the enormous explosion at Ground Zero only to be stronger. Just now I had accidentally used electricity to jump farther than I had intended, propelling myself across the alleyway. The safe landing must have come from a similar expenditure of my stored charge.

I felt a bit drained, but mostly excited. There was only one thing to do: go higher. I spent the next hour climbing the fire escape and jumping to the ground, starting at the first storey landing and progressively moving higher, two or three feet at a time. After the third jump from the fourth storey, I was feeling winded but excited.

I climbed to the very top of the building, taking a moment to spy on Zeke across the alley and down a storey. He was already asleep on the couch, partially blocked from view, just as we'd planned when positioning the couch. I nodded to myself and turned south. The roofs of the commercial and industrial buildings in the area joined up nicely through a series of catwalks, so I wandered without a destination, thinking. I occasionally moved up or down a level as the structures demanded, generally making my way upward.

Climbing was a great way for me to get my thoughts in order. I could clear my mind of trivial matters, leaving them down below, and focus on the big problems that were bothering me. Like what Zeke had said just before I left. Amy was dead? That explained some of why Trish seemed so distracted, why she was quick to anger.

Amy and I had had a cool relationship at best. A protective older sibling, she never saw me as being cut from the right sort of cloth to be worthy of Trish. In some ways, I couldn't blame Amy; when Zeke introduced us, Trish was a smart girl, studying hard in school and on her way to becoming a successful doctor. I was a nobody then and didn't really care to change things. In the time it took Trish to get through med school and a series of internships, I hadn't amounted to much. The more serious our relationship got, the more wary Amy grew of me. She was polite to my face but made a point to keep our conversations brief. It was clear she felt that Trish deserved somebody better, somebody with a college degree and a full-time job, say. Somebody who had a career and a plan to go places with their life.

Regardless of what Amy thought, I liked the courier gig and Trish didn't mind. At least, she didn't complain. It meant that I was flexible to be home when she was home, even with her on-call hours always changing. In the end, I think Amy relented because she loved Trish and she saw how happy Trish was. I was more proud of being the source of Trish's happiness than I was about any other accomplishment in my life. I would have given up even climbing to ensure her happiness, but I think Trish knew that the climbing made me happy. She only pestered me about it, never full-on demanding that I stop. We had an understanding, and mutual understanding is the best foundation for a good relationship.

I resolved to sit down and talk with Trish soon. Apart from explaining my new lightning trick, I needed to give her my condolences regarding Amy's death. With our apartment a hole in the ground, we needed a plan for what to do when the quarantine lifted. I suddenly realized that disappearing from the hospital had been a dumb plan. She needed more stability in life, not less.

I stopped pacing and cast my eyes about for a familiar landmark. It was surprisingly difficult to orient myself without the glowing signs of the Neon casting their cold light on every building. Spotting a water tower on the roof next door, I set off at a trot, easily vaulting over the space between the buildings. As I climbed up the ladder on the side of the water tower, the rough metal rungs sapped my hands of warmth.

From atop the water tower, I noticed a warm glow coming from a rooftop directly below me. A fire in a steel barrel cast light on a few hunched shapes huddled around it. Apparently, Zeke wasn't the only one with ideas of camping on a roof. I was debating between dropping in to warm my hands and simply moving on when I realized that each of the figures on the roof was wearing red. Their deeply hooded jackets were all the same deep red as the kid in the alley. It was a gang, maybe that group the Voice of Survival guy on the TV had mentioned. He'd called them "Reapers."

But what were they doing up here? I crept forward on the conical roof of the water tower, crouched low. The thugs we almost directly below me. Their hoods hid their faces and I didn't hear talking, but I didn't hear snoring, either. It looked like at least one of the four was armed with a rifle. I decided to sit and wait a while watching what they were up to.

After an hour of sitting and waiting, none of the thugs had moved. The moon had long since set and the dying remains of the fire barely cast light beyond the rim of the trash barrel. It was a long hour. I had plenty of time to think and plenty of time to grow restless. The thought of Trish running into these guys, even in daylight, decided me.

I was going to try a little light show. With no help from the government outside, the city was spiraling into lawlessness. People were dying in the streets as gangs grappled to fill the power vacuum. Maybe I could provide a distraction, perhaps stir the pot, leaving this little Reaper encampment off-balance and scared. If they spread rumors that the other guys were using electric weapons, then maybe the Reapers would be a bit more cautious, giving the cops time to regroup and retaliate.

I summoned a bit of electricity to my hands. I cupped a compact bolt in my right hand so it wouldn't flash brightly in the darkness and give away my presence. I lay on my stomach and aimed over the edge of the tower, firing off two shots at each of the first two thugs. The bolts flew straight and silent. As they burst against the slumped figures, I heard shouts of pain. The figures curled into tight balls, whimpering.

The other two were waking up. Shifting slightly, I took aim and fired another two rounds at the one with the gun. Why hadn't I gone for him first? Stupid.

Both shots missed, spraying sparks against the roof and giving the two uninjured Reapers time to scatter. One ducked behind the fire barrel and the other scurried to the roof's low perimeter wall, directly beneath me. Their heads turned back and forth frantically. They didn't know where the shots had come from. I pulled my hand back, trying to hide the sparks. My heart was racing.

The injured men were moaning but awake. Had I really intended to kill them? My original idea of shock and awe seemed more infeasible by the moment. The were supposed to run away crying to their boss, not seek fortified positions.

The guy on the far side of the fire barrel was checking his firearm, raising it to his shoulder. I was a sitting duck up here. If I moved and he saw me, he'd have a clear shot. Surprise had been my best weapon but now all three were awake and quickly coming to their wits.

Figuring that one good turn of recklessness deserved another, I checked the position of the Reaper below me a second time and jumped. The thirty foot fall gave me just enough air time to turn the sparks up to eleven. I released energy while landing beside him, tucking into a roll. Though executed perfectly, the drop and shock had drained me more than I expected. Coming out of the roll, I sprang for the fire barrel. I pressed my back against the drum and marshaled my energy, panting.

Automatic gunfire sounded just over my shoulder, accompanied by staccato flashes of light. A broken line of shrapnel sprayed from the brick wall surrounding the edge of the roof. The Reaper I'd landed next to was slumped against the wall, panting. The bullets met his body and he moved in a jerky dance. His spasming hands beat the roof like a drum, dying screams fading to a gurgling, blood-filled cough before being swallowed in another burst of gunfire.

Three feet from the muzzle was not the best place to hide from a gun. I tucked in my arms and arched my back against the barrel. At least my shadow wouldn't give me away. Fingers balled tight, I concentrated on keeping them dim. It was difficult to focus the unruly power with bullet shells bouncing against the hot metal of the fire barrel and ringing in my ear. This had been a bad plan.

The spurt of gunfire stopped, replaced by a series of rapid clicks. The Reaper with the gun snarled. There was a metallic click as the spent magazine was ejected, followed by the sound of rustling cloth. I glanced around frantically, spending precious seconds as the Reaper searched for more ammo.

His wounded companion seemed to stare at me from the shadowy depths of his hood. I watched in horror as he raised a shaky, bloody arm and pointed directly at me, wheezing.

I heard a new magazine slide into place. The skeletal finger shivered. The dying Reaper was giggling. In the pale glow of the embers, the mist of blood that sprayed from his chest with each hysterical gasp was black and glistening.

The Reaper with the gun stood up. "Oho," he whispered, "have we found a little piggie? Here piggie-piggie-pig." There was a hollow click as he chambered the first round.

I took a deep breath and summoned charge to my hands, willing it to come quickly. Spinning on my heels I stood, grabbed the edge of the trash can and pushed forward, rocking it off the wooden pallet. The Reaper doubled over as the opposite edge of the barrel slammed into his ribs. Electricity surged out of me, running across the steel of the drum and flowing into the Reaper. His body shuddered, muscles seizing. The gun clattered to the ground, unfired, followed by the thump of the Reaper's unconscious (dead?) body, still sparking. The gunshot Reaper in the corner giggled, then coughed one great, wracking cough and slid to the roof, still. The air smelled of roasted flesh, sickly sweet.

A long, muscular arm wrapped around my body, pinning my forearms. A hand grabbed the short tufts of my hair, pulling my head back. The two Reapers I'd stunned were awake, one holding me as the other advanced, a long knife glinting in his hand. His black boots crunched the scattered coals, embers hissing as they skittered into pools of blood.

I pulled more charge, channeling it across my skin. The hands of the Reaper behind me convulsed before he let go, screaming and hobbling away.

The Reaper with the knife cackled as he leaped at me. I flung my hands out, directing the electricity that was playing over my body forward. A net of percussive energy hit the Reaper, reversing his direction mid-jump and sending him sailing over the wall and off the roof. I leaned on the edge, panting, and watched him fall until he was swallowed in shadow. His scream lasted five storeys before it was cut short by the pavement, along with his life.

The remaining Reaper, twice electrocuted, shuffled in the darkness. He was laughing between chants of "Kill him, kill him, kill him." His voice was high-pitched and distorted, the words warped mutterings of a violent obsessive. From nearby, I heard the distinct crackle of radio static. A cold voiced announced that reinforcements were on the way. Time to move and I was exhausted. But a radio would have a battery! The thought of the radio battery made me feel empty, something like hungry. Remembering back to the parking lot, I put my hands at my sides, palms out and focused on that drained, hungry feeling. Then, I _pulled_.

Energy struck me, but it was not the raw white energy of a battery. This energy felt warm, almost living, but also slick and tainted. My chest exploded in pain and I fell to my knees, screaming. My head swam with vertigo as my vision blurred. I was seeing two sets of images through a pale green mist. I saw two fire barrels in front of me, one from nearby and another from a different angle, farther away. I heard the sounded of gurgling breath coming from my mouth but somehow not from my mouth at the same time.

I clutched my chest, panting. The oily energy was still coming into me and with its grease came intense pain and a haze of mental confusion. I tried to close myself off from the flow, shutting my eyes. In the blackness there was a flash, the image of faint sparks outlining the ghostly silhouette of a man hunched over his knees.

It was me. I was seeing myself through another pair of eyes. My thoughts were warped, experienced through the static of a poorly-tuned television. Was I kneeling or standing?

Very distinctly, I heard a female voice, ethereal and echoing. "Kill him!" the voice urged. I wanted to obey. I _needed _to obey. I reached to my side for my handgun, fingers groping.

Handgun? I didn't have a handgun.

I heard the slide of metal across concrete from my right. I snapped my head to the side seeing at once a skeletal grin in the depths of a red hood and my own panicked face. He was raising his gun in one unsteady hand, aiming for my chest. I felt every muscle movement that raised the weapon. I was in another body, aiming a handgun at myself. I was in my own body, preparing to die.

The cold voice came again, "Kill him now!" The woman urged, so seductive. I struggled to obey.

The gun was heavy. My chest hurt. I tried to draw more energy to clear the pain. By some miracle, I found the radio.

A gunshot echoed in my head, heard in two sets of ears.

I had sucked the small spark from the radio battery in an instant. But it was enough.

Feeling the pulse of electricity brought me back to myself. I released all the energy I had stored. Hearing the gun fire, I didn't direct the energy or contain it, I simply let go.

I saw a half-sphere of crackling white electricity rush forward from my outstretched hands. In ghostly green overlay, I saw a vision of the lightning wall coming toward me. The instant it overwhelmed my sight, the connection severed and I watched the thug's dead body sail over the edge of the roof. The gun clattered to the ground uselessly, followed by a distant, hollow thud.

A rubbed the back of my hand across my upper lip. It came away tinged in red – my nose was bleeding. I stumbled to the edge of the roof, looking down. It was too dark to see the ground. A cold wind rushed into my face from below. I staggered and fell. The wind rushed by more fiercely.

When I woke up, the sky was the clear blue of midday. I was face-down beside a mound of trash, face nestled in a pizza box. There was a corpse beside me, dressed in red with blood-red stains and black streaks. How had it gotten there? Why was I remembering spending the night on a roof in front of a fire barrel, oiling a handgun and bickering with friends about the wind?

I experimented with moving each of my limbs in turn. Everything was sore, but it was all in working order. I was no longer seeing double but the world was abnormally colorless and grey. My mind was crowded with confused thoughts.

Weak and disoriented, I blundered past another body and out of the alley into a parking lot full of cars, their batteries waiting to be drained. I stumbled up to the first row and, placing my hands on the hood of a coupe, drained. Color returned to my vision immediately, the pain in my joints quickly receding. My mind felt sharper. I drained another car, and then another. Each surge drove the foreign thoughts and strange memories further from my conscious mind. Working methodically, I moved from car to car, draining batteries as I went. By the fourth car I was bouncing on my toes, jittery with pent-up energy. The pain was entirely gone. Borrowed power was coursing in me and I felt full to the brim, but I was curious. Forcing myself to focus, I drained another two cars. It was more difficult to draw the power this time. Instead of the energy flowing downhill into me, I felt like I was pulling against a current. I had too much charge stored up to be tired out by the struggle, but the energy was fickle, slippery. I gave up trying to drain a seventh vehicle; there was no way I could hold that much charge.

Though by this point the energy leaked from me before I could absorb it, I noticed an odd feeling as I experimented with overcharging. My reserves swelled as I channeled energy into them from outside, but afterward there was a little more space. Perhaps I'd gradually be able to handle larger and larger amounts of energy as my body became accustomed to it all. My capacity might be enhanced.

I wondered what would happen if I'd had a live feed, direct from a power line. Such thoughts were useless with the city power grid down, of course, but still... It was the first few bolts of lightning on the bridge that had activated the power I had now. If I could somehow get another huge shock like that, maybe I could really ramp up my body's capacity to hold electric charge in reserve.

Or maybe I'd burnt out entirely. With no way to know, I decided to head back to Zeke's pad, the closest thing I had to call home.


	8. 8 Zeke

**8. Zeke**

I woke up to find Cole on the opposite end of the couch in a squat. He was doing his characteristic stare into the distance. I grunted and sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and groping around on the empty keg beside the couch for my sunglasses. It was bright out.

"Was it a good run?" I always asked him that when he came back from exploring. He smelled like he'd been running all night.

"It was... enlightening."

Along with electric powers, it seemed he'd also gained the ability to be enigmatic. I slipped on my shades and, squinting as my eyes adjusted, saw the veins on his neck beating steadily. "Looks like your heart's going a mile a minute."

He didn't look over. "Always does that," he said.

"Always?"

"Since it happened."

I nodded. No more explanation was needed. "Well, you know the saying, brother: Half as long, twice as bright."

"Words of wisdom, huh?" He asked, seeming to chew it over in his mind. "'Half as long, twice as bright.' I like that. Though you sure as hell didn't come up with it."

I grinned. I hadn't, but there was no need to tell him that. "Whatever you say, boss. Oh, I didn't get through to Trish but I did leave a message. Don't know if she'll be able to get back to me though, my cell phone's nearly dead."

"No place to recharge."

"Not with the power out," I agreed. Empire Electric employees had their hands tied keeping the generators online at the hospitals and prisons. It figures the villains, thugs and tweaked-out teens got priority treatment before the decimated power grid was fixed for us law-abiding, tax-paying citizens, but then I could only image what would happen were there a prison revolt and those crazies were let loose in the streets. A big city like Empire had more than a few crazies. And don't get me started on the organized riff-raff who were running the city before the explosion. Maybe now at least the world will see the truth behind the government plots.

Cole cracked his knuckles. I guess I was starting to understand why he was always looking at his hands: it was so easy to disbelieve what was happening, so easy to dismiss, until you saw the proof there in the lightning bolts he casually passed from palm to palm.

Seeing all that electricity gave me an idea. "You know, there might be something you can do about that."

"About what?"

"About us not having any power. Lemme go grab something from my truck. I gotta take a leak, too."

I stood up, knees creaking a bit. I was no stranger to sleeping on a couch, but it would have been nice to have had a few more hours of shut-eye. No sleep for the wicked, I guess.

He watched me but didn't move from his strange way of sitting on the backs of his heels on the couch. He looked like a bird.

"You gonna sit down?" I asked.

"Feel kinda jumpy."

"That's good," I said. "I think I've got just the place to put a little pent-up energy."

Eight storeys is a lot of fire escape to climb up and down. By the time I got to the bottom, my knees were feeling a bit more lubricated but I was winded and really had to piss. The stench from the trash pile was terrible, so I grabbed a tarp from the back of my truck and covered it up as best I could. Looked like some junkie had decided to go and take a nap in the trash. Now he'd wake up with a plastic blanket. I'm such a do-gooder, it surprises even me sometimes.

After relieving myself against the wall, I went back to Bessie, rummaging around in the big tool box I kept against the back of the cab. It was a mess in there and as I poked around for the stuff I'd need, I found myself humming "Eye of the Tiger." After a few minutes, I found what I was searching for. I had just tucked a Phillips screwdriver into the corner of my mouth so I could get both hands around my prize when I heard a whooshing sound behind me, quickly growing louder. I turned around just in time to see a body collide with the ground. There was a meaty thud as it sent out a ripple of dust and sparks.

Cole stood up in the middle of the dust cloud, grinning.

The screwdriver hit the bed of the truck with a hollow smack. My jaw hung open.

"Yo." Cole said, brushing off his thighs as he sauntered over.

"Uh."

"I got tired of waiting," he explained, draping his arms over the tail gate. Sparks skittered over the bed.

"So you..."

"So, I took the express elevator."

I glanced up the fire escape. "Tell me you didn't jump."

"I didn't jump."

"Tell me you're not lying."

"Oh, I am most definitely lying."

"From the top?"

"The very top."

"All eight storeys?"

"I think I'm really beginning to like this."

He'd just jumped from the top of an_ eight storey_ building and landed without injury. Landed in style. My mind boggled, I shut my flapping jaw and looked from him to the top of the building and back. My eyes narrowed.

"But can you do it again?"

His grin was infectious.

Instead of taking the fire escape like a mere human, he walked over to the opposite wall and hauled himself up on a window sill, zig-zagging between windows and pipes. It was the same stuff he'd been doing for years, but his style was far smoother and more confident. He was completely different. It was like watching a spider at home in its web. Just before he reached the roof, he turned to wave. I waved back weakly. What if he missed and somehow landed on me?

What was I saying? What if he landed wrong and became sidewalk pizza? This was my best friend I was thinking about.

"Cole, I'm not so sure –" But before I could finish, his grip on the ledge slipped. His arms pinwheeled for a second before he tumbled backward into empty space. Hands flaring with electric energy, he tucked himself into a ball and spun twice in the air before impacting.

Again, a small cloud of dust flew up as a ring of lightning rippled out along the ground. He'd landed poorly, just like I feared.

"Cole!" Dropping everything, I vaulted out of the truck bed and ran over.

He was crumpled on the ground, clutching his side and... laughing? I stopped short, staring down at him. In between laughs, he waved a hand weakly.

"Oh, man," he sighed. "That – that was fun!"

"I thought you fell!"

"I did!" He stood up, again brushing off his knees absently, still grinning. "My grip slipped – stupid mistake, beginner's mistake – but somehow in midair I got a little, I dunno, a push. I was able to control my fall enough to tuck and roll." He was so excited to share the experience I didn't have the heart to be angry at him for scaring me. Besides, it was one of the damn coolest things I'd ever seen.

"You landed on your feet?"

He nodded. "Just barely. In a crouch. I'll have to work on that..."

"But not just yet," I interjected before he could get to thinking about rooftops again. "I've got something I want to try. C'mere, I could use a hand."


	9. 9 Cole

**9. Cole**

The adrenaline rush following my almost-botched landing had me pumped. I'd discovered I could hit the ground safely during my nighttime excursion, but the feeling of control mid-air hinted at something different, something better. The knowledge that I was safe from high falls was reassuring, but heights didn't matter if I didn't fall and I was well-practiced in not falling. The idea of using a push from my hands or feet to guide a jump, on the other hand, was much more exciting.

As the buzz from the fall and energetic landing wore off, I was surprised to find I wasn't exhausted. Since the blast, my schedule had been busy: waking up from the coma, the subsequent electrocution and escape from the hospital, then the fight in the alley and helping Zeke move a couch and then finally a several-hour free run across the rooftops culminating in another fight. But I wasn't tired. I was tingling with energy, ready to go. Any feeling of being drained after a lightshow faded quickly. I wondered if I'd be able to sleep much.

For the time being, Zeke was up to something. He positioned me beside the truck, humming to himself as he dropped what looked like the guts of an old refrigerator into my arms. When he had a plan, which was often, I learned to stand back and hit cruise control until the plan either came to fruition in its full glory or otherwise exploded in a fiery death. Either way, a Zeke-plan was always entertaining.

Arms stacked full of jumper cables, alligator clamps, car batteries, screwdrivers, and stray bits of copper wiring, I was starting to get an idea of what he was up to. I wasn't sure I liked it, but after that fantastic fall, I was feeling too good to rain on anybody's parade.

"To the roof?" I asked.

He nodded, still humming and rummaging in the small toolbox in his arms as he walked.

"If this works," Zeke said when he took a breather on the fifth floor landing of the fire escape, "we won't have to worry about food any more."

I hadn't been aware we were worrying about food. In fact, I hadn't devoted a single second to thinking about food since I woke up from the coma. It made sense though, city-wide quarantine and all.

"I'm not sure I catch your drift."

"I wanna see if we can somehow hook you up to these spent car batteries I, uh, liberated. Instead of draining them like you did in the parking lot – yea, I saw you –" he interrupted himself, seeing my surprise. "Instead of doing that, I want you to do the reverse. Put some charge in them."

"But, Zeke, we can't eat car batteries, charged or not." His eyes lingered on my hands for a second, as if he were doubtful. He squatted, picked up his traveling toolkit and went back to climbing the fire escape.

"That's not my plan. I want to trade these batteries once they're charged. Lotta folks want power, now that it's been out for so long and there's no sign of getting it back. I figure they'd be willing to trade some food for some juice, if you catch my drift."

I followed him up the fire escape. "Makes sense. I dunno if I can do it though."

"Sure ya can. You can charge up your hands, right? 'Electricity always flows downhill,' like Mr. Duffy always used to say. We just have to lead that juice down into one of the batteries."

"I never thought I'd live to hear the day Zeke Jedediah Dunbar quoted a schoolteacher from memory. Will wonders never cease?"

"So long as you're around, Cole, I very much doubt it." I'm sure he'd meant it to be light-hearted, but the words held an ominous tone to me. I struggled to think about something other than the rooftop thug's memories in my head.

We reached the top floor and Zeke went straight to work, lining the batteries up and tinkering with wires and cables. I tried to clear my mind and focus on controlling the current through my hands, but something was bothering me.

"Hey, Z?"

He grunted, a man absorbed in his work.

"Do me a favor?"

He grunted again. Affirmative.

"Don't tell Trish."

He set down the wire he'd been stripping. "You sure that's a good idea?"

"I'll tell her. Just... not yet. The time's gotta be right."

He narrowed his eyes but nodded. "You got it, Boss. Now let's get you fired up!"

We tried several different combinations of wire leads but in the end, after I had accidentally zapped him half a dozen times and exploded two of the batteries – "They're supposed to do that," he'd insisted – we realized that the easiest thing to do was to hook a little antennae to the negative lead of the battery and have me shoot that, no physical contact needed.

It took focus. I had to compress the energy into little spark-pellets, something that electricity didn't want to do naturally. By the end of an hour, I was sweating and my eyes were watery, blurring my vision. When I got a second battery charged, Zeke pronounced our little experiment a success.

"Now all we need is a boob tube and maybe some brewskis and we're in business." He grinned. "The simple pleasures in life."

I wasn't sure where he was going to get a television – everything I'd owned was gone, rubble at Ground Zero in the Historic District and Zeke had lived just a block away – but I didn't put it past him to have something worked out, or else stashed in one of his emergency caches. I guess being a paranoid conspiracy theorist pays off sometimes. Not that I'd ever tell him that.

"Zeke," I asked, remembering the fight from the night before. "Do you have a straight razor? I want to trim my hair."

"You don't strike me as a skinhead."

"I can't very well use an electric razor, can I?"

"Tell you what, I'll see what I can do. You should take a break. Sleep on the couch. I'm gonna make a run for some supplies before nightfall. I'll see if I can't find you something then." I nodded as his greased head disappeared down the fire escape once more.

Feeling more drained than sleepy, I practiced conducting energy into my hands at as fine-tuned a scale as I could, reducing the current to a trickle and releasing tiny flecks of light into the air at high speed. But eventually it took too much effort to concentrate and I dozed off, dreams broken by the memory of an explosion.

* * *

><p>Next chapter: Trish! Reapers! A machine gun! What could go wrong?<p> 


	10. 10 Trish

**10. Trish**

It seemed Zeke wasn't completely incompetent: he'd tracked down Cole and sent a text saying everything was fine. Why I was afraid Cole could have gotten far, I had no idea. According to Zeke, they were crashing on a sofa on a roof a few blocks from the hospital. Before I could slip away from the hospital to see them I had to manage more than a few minor crises, finally delegating my last chores to Sam the nurse. After a very poor night's sleep in a cot in my office, I needed a break. And I wanted a choice word or two with Cole about leaving supervised medical care.

I powered down my cell phone after double-checking the address Zeke had sent. Despite the soaring gasoline prices since the blockade came into effect, I opted to drive. Night was approaching when I finally got away from work and I was afraid to walk alone. I told myself this decision was based on prudence, not cowardice. Having treated more gunshot and knife wounds in the past two days than in my entire five-year career at the hospital, the fear was well-grounded.

The streets were nearly empty but I pulled out of the employee parking lot slowly anyway, creeping down the street. There were no other drivers in sight.

Nerves on edge, I flipped on the radio. My usual jazz station was static. The classical station too. And the rock station. _Both _rock stations. In the end, I found a signal by switching to the AM band. It was a recorded announcement, about thirty seconds in length and playing on a loop.

"It was reported that a large explosion occurred in the Neon district of Empire City five days ago. Terrorist activity is suspected, though no group has yet to come forward to claim the attack. Due to the possibility of infectious biological warfare agents, the Coast Guard and Army are working with Empire State law enforcement to maintain a quarantine buffer zone around Empire City. Crews are working to restore electricity to the City shortly, after which it is expected the quarantine will be lifted in short order. Citizens are urged to remain calm. Message repeats. It was reported that a large explosion..."

Apart from the mention of five days – had it really only been five days?– the entire message was verbatim what was being reported on the only television station available. A similar statement had also been faxed to the hospital, just before the landlines to the outside world were cut off. I had seen the fax: it came on military letterhead and was padded by jargon, censoring, and false promises.

"... restore electricity to the City shortly..." I snapped the radio off, exhaling in disgust.

I didn't believe a world of it and yet I still hoped it was true. At this point, hoping for a miracle was the only thing left to do.

My eyes returned to the road into time to see a red-clad figure jump out from between park cars on the right, waving a large gun – was it a machine gun? He pulled the trigger, shooting into the air. Startled, I slammed the brake pedal with both feet, cursing myself for wondering about the type of gun instead of reacting. The car stopped five feet short of the figure. More men in red hoods lined the sidewalk. They all had guns. Any civilians on the street had already scattered.

The man in the road stopped firing and gripped his gun with both hands, leveling the barrel directly at me. In a split-second decision that saved my life, I used the only weapon I had: the car. I pressed the accelerator to the floor. The car surged forward. The front bumper impacted the man at knee level, surely breaking both legs as I plowed through him. His body hit the hood and rolled to the side. All the while, the sound of small explosions was ringing from the muzzle of his weapon. All the while, I was screaming. At some point, the windshield shattered, showering me in irregular pieces of glass.

I had a small cut under my eye. The gunman in red, his body quickly receding in the rear view mirror, would never walk again. Double femoral fracture, completely shattered patellae. Reconstructive surgery unlikely to succeed.

My foot didn't lift the gas pedal from the floor until four blocks later. Somehow, I found my way to the address on the Post-It note. I parked in front of Zeke's truck and collapsed against the steering wheel, crying.

Zeke found me that way, fifteen minutes later. I played the "long day at work" card, hinting that I was tired and stressed. It was an easy act to believe.

"Cole's upstairs, resting on the couch. You should get some rest too, Trish. I was just about to go get some supplies but I can... I can come up there and sit with you a while, if you like."

I shook my head. I needed some time to think and clear my head. Even sleeping on a couch sounded more comfortable than the cot in my office, surrounded by my three coworkers who were also crashing there.

"Thanks, Zeke, but I can make. Tell you what, you take my car. I'm blocking your way."

"Trish, your car doesn't have a windshield. What happened?"

"Not now, Zeke." I handed him the keys. "Go on."

He looked at me over the rims of his sunglasses. He looked about as tired as I felt.

"You sure you're sure?"

"Just go. And Zeke –" I squeezed his hand "– come back safely."

"Yes, ma'am." He was watching me carefully, so I made a big show of straightening my shoulders and walking over to the fire escape. Of course, I couldn't quite reach the bottom rung, so I had to pull over a box to stand on. I made it, though, and somehow getting over such a small obstacle helped clear my mind for very large obstacle that lay ahead, at the top of the fire escape.

I had been very carefully avoiding deep thoughts until then, but as I climbed eight storeys of rusted metal ladder, there was no more time to delay. I didn't know what I'd find when I arrived at the top and saw Cole, supposedly asleep on the couch. I wasn't even sure what I wanted to find.

Of course I wanted him to be alive, unhurt. With Amy dead from the blast and my parents long gone, Cole was as good as family. Which made Zeke something like a bastard step-brother. Thinking back on the concern in Zeke's eyes when he saw me at the steering wheel of my car, surrounded by windshield debris and obviously in shock, I realized I didn't mind the thought of Zeke as a brother. He had his moments, but he was resourceful, brave, and more clever than anybody gave him credit for. And he cared deeply about Cole. Given everything that was going on in Empire City, his staying beside Cole's hospital bed every day was more than enough for me to overlook certain character flaws.

Just before I crested the top rung of the fire escape, I took a moment to clear my mind of expectations. I carefully packaged away my memories of what had happened yesterday afternoon in the hospital room, so reminiscent of the events on the bridge five days ago. I took a bitter moment to mourn for Amy and then put that, too, away for another time. Finally, cursing myself again for having left all my medical supplies in the trunk of my car, I muttered a quick, bitter prayer that Cole would be okay. I never once allowed myself to recognize my deepest fear: that he had somehow become something unnatural, beyond real.

He was asleep on the couch, one arm draped over his face to block out the oblique evening sunlight. His long body was bent into a fetal position, curled smaller than need be on the wide couch. His jaw clenched tightly as he ground his teeth and turned in fits. His closed eyelids trembled, belying eyes darting in their sockets. His skin wasn't pale or taut like I would have expected from a coma patient. Instead of a man clinging to the very edge of life, Cole looked exactly as I remembered him from before the blast.

In the explosion he'd suffered deep tissue lacerations to most of his torso, along with a handful of minor bone fractures – two crushed ribs, a broken pinkie. Somehow he'd avoided further bone damage when he was caught in the second terrorist attack on the bridge. A second degree burn had covered the back of his neck. I treated the burn twice a day, every day while he was in the hospital. No infection set in and the skin had been healing better than expected.

But now the burns were gone. Entirely gone, with no sign of even superficial tissue scarring. I leaned over him, checking his left side in case I had somehow gotten it backward. As my shadow fell across his face, I noticed a faint flicker or shimmer to his skin. A trick of the light.

I squeezed my eyes shut and counted down from ten. It was possible I'd suffered a minor concussion from the... ordeal on the road. I decide to let Cole sleep. Suddenly feeling tired myself, I sat on the roof with my back to the couch. Hopefully Zeke would return within the hour; daylight was fading fast. I tilted my head back and dozed.

When I awoke, it was fully dark. Someone had covered me with a thick blanket. I stretched my arms wide, hearing the cartilage creak in my stiff back and neck. Everything ached from sleeping upright.

"Woo, I heard that."

"Oh, hello, Zeke." I stood up, wrapping the blanket around my shoulders and sinking into one of the several camp chairs that had materialized during my nap. Zeke had already claimed one for himself. Cole was facing the other direction on the couch, limbs tucked in tight.

"Zeke, we need to get him back to the hospital. He can't recover here."

"About that... I don't think he'll need much more time for recovery."

"I'll be the judge of that."

He shrugged, palms up. "Be my guest."

I walked over to Cole's blanket-covered form. Even in the moonlight, I could see his skin had a healthy shade, not the pallor of the sick. The carotid artery was pulsing visibly in his neck. I glanced at my watch to time his pulse, but the digital display was frozen at 3:12.

"What time is it?" I asked.

Zeke shrugged again. "Not sure myself. Been dark for about an hour. How's he doing?"

"Moaning though he doesn't appear to be in pain. I can't measure it for sure, but his heart rate seems steady, if fast. I suppose I should be the one asking you how he is, seeing as you were the one who smuggled him out of the hospital."

Zeke sighed. "Don't start digging into me about that. You probably won't believe this, but Cole tricked me into leaving the room to get his stuff so he could slip out behind my back. Behind both our backs."

It did sound like something Cole might do. The look on Zeke's face when I met him at the front desk had been full of genuine surprise. Now, he looked up at me in earnest.

I threw my hands in the air in defeat. "Typical. At least we know where he is. Shock victims can suffer temporary memory loss and sometimes acute confusion. He might have tried to wander off a bridge, or back to the place he was before the accident. Not that that place exists as more than rubble now."

"When you were searching the hospital, I found him walking around in the parking lot. Didn't seem confused or amnesiac or anything like that. In fact, I was surprised with how healthy he looked."

"He could walk?"

"Walk? Hell, he was fine. Not a mark on him."

From what I'd seen earlier that afternoon and from the quick glance just now, Zeke's assessment was accurate. But Cole had just been in a coma following an explosion _and _electrocution. He couldn't be fine.

Zeke was still talking. "Anyhow, I gave him back his shirt and we... we headed over here. Speaking of, how do you like the new digs?"

"Didn't take you long."

"What can I say? I'm a resourceful kind of guy."

I touched my neck. "Zeke, didn't Cole have a burn? Here, on the back of his head?"

"Hey, have a seat, will you? Makes me nervous, seeing you pace like that."

I reclaimed a lawn chair, exhaling heavily. It felt good to sit.

"How are you doing yourself? How'd your car get so beat up, anyway?"

"Doesn't matter. I'm fine and it still runs."

"That it does. Thanks for letting me borrow it. I'll, uh, pay you back for the gas when everything gets back to normal."

I wondered just how long that would be. Already the stress was enough to have me second-guessing myself.

"Don't worry about the gas, Z. Also, I'd prefer it if Cole were sleeping in an actual bed."

"Same here." Came a gruff voice from the couch. Cole sat up.

"Cole!" I rushed over to his side, kneeling beside him on the couch.

"G'morning," he said, voice thick with sleep.

"Welcome to the land of the living, Brother."

I wanted to hug him, but the nurse in me knew better. My eyes swept across his face, checking the dilation of the pupils, the texture of the skin.

"How do you feel?" I asked, moving to press my hand to the inside of his wrist. He stood up suddenly, dodging me.

"Hungry."

"Cole, I need to check your vital signs. You're in no shape to – "

He turned, looking down at me. Our eyes locked. For a moment neither of us moved. Then he knelt down, taking my hand and gently placing it on his shoulder.

"Trish, this is going to sound weird –"

"Ho-boy," Zeke whispered, "Here we go."

Cole silenced him with a glare.

"But I am perfectly fine."

I squeezed his shoulder and adopted my best bedside voice. "You've just been in a coma, Cole. There could be injuries we haven't yet discovered. I need you to come back to the hospital. If everything checks out, you wouldn't have to stay more than a night or two."

"Look at me, Trish. Look very carefully." His eyes were steady and uncomfortably intense. I flinched. Something strange was going on. He seemed perfectly healthy.

"I feel fine. And I definitely don't need to go to the hospital."

"You're in no state to make that decision."

"Trish, I'm not going back. Take all the measurements you want right here, but I'm not going back to the hospital." I suddenly realized that his decision was made. Whatever consideration he might once have had for my opinion was gone. There was no discussion between us, no argument I could make to sway him. It wasn't the way relationships were supposed to work, whether between romantic partners or between doctor and patient.

"Take off your shirt." I demanded.

He complied without comment.

"Turn around."

He did so. Sure enough, there were no burn marks, no scabs, cuts, or scars. When I ran my hand over the unbroken skin of his back, it was I who shivered, not him. His skin was cool but not clammy.

I fished my stethoscope out of my pocket, placing the disk where I could most easily hear his lungs and heart.

"Breath in. Good. Exhale." Sounded fine. I switched to his left lung.

"Again." He inhaled and exhaled again, deeply. His tattoos danced as the muscles of his shoulders glided under his skin.

"Turn around." I centered the stethoscope over his aorta. He locked his gaze over my shoulder, lips pressed together in a thin line, eyes steady. Both coma patients and lightning victims often develop heart murmurs shortly after recovery, but I heard nothing amiss. His heartbeat was rapid but smooth. I moved the stethoscope a hair's breadth and kept listening. Everything was normal.

"You can put your shirt back on."

I checked his pupil reactions and eye muscle coordination with my pen light. I tested his balance and coordination in walking a straight line with his eyes open and shut, arms out. I checked his reaction time, his short- and long-term memory, his involuntary muscle reactions to a knee-jerk test. I poked and prodded the lymph glands of his neck and armpits. Throughout it all, he never said a word. He followed my instructions and never grew impatient. Zeke watched passively.

After scouring my memory for every evaluation I'd ever learned as an intern, I finally gave up. All results were the same: Cole was a healthy twenty-something guy without the slightest trace of injury. His memory from immediately before the blast was a bit fuzzy, but if I had brought him to the hospital they wouldn't have been able to detect any sign that he needed medical treatment of any sort.

"Well?" Zeke asked as I finally collapsed on the couch.

"I can't say I understand it, but there's nothing wrong with him."

Zeke glanced at Cole, a hint of nervousness in his eyes. "He's fit as a fiddle. Didn't I tell ya just that?"

Cole walked over to the edge of the roof, silent.

"Yes, Zeke, you did. You'll forgive me for not taking your word on it? It was a pretty unbelievable thing to hear."

" 'course I do."

"Cole, you really are feeling fine?"

"Yes."

"Then I guess there's nothing more to discuss. Regardless, I'll be keeping my eye on you."

His silhouette, a dark stain in the moonlit view of Empire Bay, didn't move.

"I guess that settles that," Zeke said, standing and rubbing his hands together. "Who's for grub? I got some beef jerky, some Cheet-ohs... Oh, and a case of beer nuts!"

I frowned, but as soon as the snacks were laid out on the card table near the lawn chairs, I was surprised at my appetite. While we were eating, Zeke and I filled Cole in on the things he'd missed. Cole asked few questions and hardly ate. He'd been lying about his hunger.

"Oh," I said, suddenly remembering. "A guy from Empire Electric agreed that Cole's hospital room was the site of the power overload that tripped the circuit breaker earlier. Must have caused the malfunction of the equipment as well."

"You showed them the room?"

"Of course I showed them. Even if I had reason not to – which I don't – I couldn't cover it up for long, could I? I did manage to convince Sam that we ducked into the room right after the lights went out, so he won't ask questions about you, Cole. If they realized I'd released a patient without first consulting the shift doctor, I'd be in for it... Thank God you had the sense to trash the gown."

"You mean you guys are keeping patient records, even with all this chaos with the plague?" Zeke seemed impressed.

"We're trying to. At the very least, we keep the medical charts at the end of the bed. It's important for nurses on different shifts to be able to communicate their observations."

"Huh," Zeke grunted, "Go figure."

"That is," I said, grinning, "if we can read each other's handwriting."

Zeke laughed uproariously at my attempt at a joke, but Cole was brooding.

"Look, guys, I'm starting to get sleepy and there's only one couch here. I think I'm going to head back to my office at the hospital and call it a night." As much as I dreaded sleeping in the cot again, the thought of any sleep at all was a welcome.

"I can give you a ride," Zeke offered.

I shook my head. "You should stay here and keep an eye on Cole, seeing as he's so sure he doesn't need to be at the hospital." As soon as I said it, I wished I hadn't. Instead of giving me a kiss and a hug good-bye, Cole stood up and walked to the edge of the roof, eyes sweeping the alley below.

"It looks safe enough. You two should go now." He said curtly. The chill in his voice made the air feel ten degrees colder.

"I insist on driving you," Zeke said.

I grabbed my bag, too ashamed to give Cole another glance. "Let's go, then."

* * *

><p>Please review! This story has a ton of followers but I'm sad that most of you are too shy to say "hello"...<p> 


	11. 11 Zeke

**11. Zeke**

Trish rode beside me in the truck without speaking a word. Her back was ramrod straight and her expression rigid as she stared through the windshield. As I drove, there was not a single person walking the sidewalks. A shiver passed down my spine to see a major thoroughfare in the Neon so deserted. And so dark! The moving shadows cast by the headlights were jagged and long. I was glad to arrive at the warm, lit glow of the hospital entrance.

"To the very doorstep," I announced. Several people dressed in scrubs and white coats rushed toward the truck. As soon as they realized I was delivering Trish instead of a wounded patient, their tired faces changed to relieved smiles and they retreated, huddled together in the pool of light by the hospital doors like it was an island of safety and sanity.

"Thanks for the ride," Trish said, not looking at me as she climbed out of the truck and shut the door.

I debated between comforting her and keeping my word to Cole that I wouldn't say anything. In the end, I rolled down my window. "Trish, there's something I think you ought to know."

She turned toward me, eyes fierce. "Zeke, I know when you two are hiding something. Either tell me now or don't, but whatever you do, don't feed me a line of bullshit."

I swallowed. There was too much to say. All the words I thought of would sound unreal if spoken aloud. "Come on now, Trish..."

"Exactly as I thought. Thank you for at least having the decency to not attempt another transparent misdirection. You were always a bad liar, Zeke. Let's hope you're better at keeping an eye on him this time."

Where was the smiling, kind-hearted Trish of a week ago?

"I'll... I'll do my best."

"I'm counting on it." Then her voice softened and the corners of her eyes seemed to sag with weariness. "Look, I appreciate your being there for Cole. And for me. With all that's happened, I don't know what to think." She glanced upward at the nearly-full moon. "It's crazy..."

"I don't think we know the half of it," I murmured.

But she was already walking back to the hospital, swept into a protective swirl of coworkers.

I was not surprised to find Cole gone when I arrived on the roof again. I'd taken the time to salvage a television I'd seen lying in the gutter earlier. Hooked up to one of Cole's batteries, it powered on nicely. I fiddled with the old-fashioned rabbit-ear antennae, managing to turn the static snow storm into the occasional flurry.

With a satisfied grunt I lay down on the couch and caught the tail end of a Voice of Survival broadcast. The guy was saying something about how he'd been contacted by a representative of a group calling themselves "Reapers." They'd demanded he issue an on-air warning to all other gangs that the Neon was Reaper territory. Remembering the dead body in the alleyway, I hoped Cole was staying clear of whatever men could have done such a thing as murder, leaving the corpse in the open as a calling card. I decided to add fortifications to the roof and fire escape first thing in the morning.


	12. 12 Cole

**12. Cole**

Zeke's eyes went wide. "What?" he stammered.

I groaned deep in my throat. It was a sound like a dump truck gargling small- to medium-sized boulders, but I was too much in pain to notice that my vocal cords had been replaced by grittier-than-normal sandpaper. I clutched my side but blood was seeping out between my fingers, soaking into my shirt like a dark flower. How poetic.

"Shot," I managed to say again through clamped teeth. Sagging to my knees, I leaned against the low wall at the edge of the roof. Color was starting to drain from my vision, but with it went the sharpest of the pains wracking my body. I could hardly feel the cool night wind that usually whipped over the rooftops.

Every summer, Zeke moved a couch from his apartment up to the roof to catch that breeze. Even back then, with electricity to power air conditioning, the open-air pad was more comfortable than being cooped up indoors on muggy nights. I often crashed on his rooftop couch when I was a bit too beer-buzzed to bike home.

Except I was currently crashing a bit harder than usual.

"Shot? Damn, man! We better call for backup."

"Yea..." I agreed weakly before passing out. The fall into unconsciousness hurt less than I would have expected.


	13. 13 Cole

**13. Cole**

A familiar voice faded in, calling my name. "Cole? Cole!" So much for numbed painlessness. I loved the woman dearly, but she never did let me get enough sleep.

"Zeke, why is Cole lying at the top of the stairs?"

Was I lying at the top of the stairs? I opened my eyes to check but my nose was inches away from shadowy brick._ Hello, brick_, I thought.

The sound of light footsteps rushing up to me was less muffled now. The pain was coming back as well.

"Is that blood? Zeke, what happened?"

"Shot," I muttered. Oh yeah, I had been shot. Forgot about that for a second. Lovely brick, though. Cool to the touch.

"Don't panic, Trish." I heard Zeke saying at my shoulder as Trish's gentle hands felt along my back and neck.

"His shirt's soaked through with blood. Cole? Cole, can you hear me? What happened?"

"Trish, he's been shot."

"What?"

"Shot," I agreed, exhaling deeply. I rolled onto my back with a groan. "H'lo, Trish." I tried to smile, but the warmth faded from me as I saw her panicked face. Things were still gray around the edges, so I closed my eyes again.

"Shot?" she repeated.

"Shot," Zeke said.

"I can't believe this is happening. Shot? With a gun?"

"Gun," I agreed.

"Shot. With a gun. Oh my god, Cole..."

"Trish, I think you need to sit down," Zeke began.

"Zeke, Cole's been shot..."

I heard the shuffling of feet and various quiet sounds of fabric rustling. "Here, let me get you a blanket; it's cold up here."

It was cold up here. My left side was tingling from shoulder to toes and dull pain was throbbing across my chest. Just under my left armpit it felt like my ribcage had caved in, perhaps from wrestling with an overeager jackhammer.

"Zeke, what happened? Who shot Cole?" Her voice was weak and trembling with the sort of high-pitched quality that sounded seconds from panic.

"Relax, now. I think you're going through shock. You just sit tight here on the couch and we'll see what we can do for Cole, okay?"

Trish murmured her agreement and I heard her collapse on the couch. After a moment, I heard her whisper in a hollow, flat tone, "First Amy, and now this. Zeke, I don't know what I'd do if I lost Cole, too."

I suddenly became aware of the violent tremors running through my body. With each wave of shivers, my head cleared a bit. I opened my eyes to see the outline of Elvis lumbering toward me. Perhaps too early to open the eyes, then. I was not yet ready to meet the King.

Only Elvis sounded a lot like Zeke as he knelt down beside me. "Hey, man, you awake?"

"Yea," I managed. "Feels like I met the business end of a speeding truck."

"Heh," he managed a grunt-like laugh, "looks like it, too."

"Got any more good news?"

"Well, no, not really. I called for back-up of the medical and girlfriend variety but she's in shock herself." He reflected for a second. "Kinda ass-backward from what I planned but there you have it."

Over his shoulder came Trish's voice, "Zeke? You need to check for breathing! And don't take the bullet out yet."

I rolled my eyes. Somewhere behind his sunglasses, I'm sure Zeke was doing the same. He muttered "I knew that much from the movies," before he called back to her, "He's breathing just fine, Trish, but could you maybe walk me through the next steps? I'm not exactly a nursemaid here."

"Just fine? He was shot! With a gun!"

"Speaking of, man, what happened? You show up halfway up the fire escape bleeding like... bleeding a lot. You mutter a few things about being shot as I haul your ass up here and then you pass out on me."

I remembered it in a bit more detail, but not by much. I'd seen some guys from a local gang harassing a couple on a side street and decided to play hero. I had the drop on them and managed to scare them – and the couple – by going sparky, but unfortunately scared hoodlums tend to wave their firearms about and shoot without thinking much in between. It was stupid of me to try taking on guys armed with guns again. Stupid. Just because I could zap a few batteries and take high falls – even ridiculously high falls – didn't make me bulletproof. Let this be the lesson: unarmed guy fighting guys with guns? Unarmed guy gets shot. Even if he's a sparky guy, he still gets shot. End of story.

I was angry to see that young couple getting accosted because they could have been Trish and me before the blast, out for a late night movie or some ice cream. Before everything happened. Before her sister died and her happy demeanour changed to bitter and businesslike. So I had decided to vent my frustration on the hoods. But these hoods had been packing heat.

"Reapers," I said, trying to sit up.

"Hey, man, take it easy. You sure you want to sit up?"

I felt weak, drained, but sitting up wasn't so bad. It helped clear my head a bit to be upright.

"I'll just lean against the wall, I think." Good old brick, never letting me down.

Zeke leaned in, peering at my face carefully through his ridiculous sunglasses. "You tried to take on some Reapers? You kick their asses?" Good old Zeke, always eager to hear the stories when I came back from doing something stupid, like walking across the top of the bridge to the Warren or climbing up a flagpole on top of a skyscraper.

I sifted through my hazy memories. Of the three guys I'd seen, I'd knocked one out as soon as I impacted the ground next to him. The other guy tripped over his own feet as he backed up in surprise, waving his firearm and shooting wildly above my head. I sent him into blissful unconsciousness with a few quick zaps as he was fumbling on the ground. It was the third guy who shot me as he ran away, shouting obscenities over his shoulder. I couldn't remember where the couple went; I was too busy nursing a bullet to the side.

"One guy got away."

"But you did it? You got the other guys? How many were there?"

There came muffled crash from the direction of the couch. "What am I doing?" Trish shouted, jumping up and rushing over. Her face was suddenly focused, if still angry. She loomed over us both. "Zeke, I need fresh water, preferably hot, and lots of it. Also, clean rags, a small knife, and scissors." She pursed her lips, looking down at me. "On second thought, just bring the bandages and water."

"Trish! You're back, I was beginning to –"

"Go now, Zeke!" She shoved him aside and knelt beside me.

"I didn't think I could get any more worried about you than when you were caught in that freak electric discharge the day of the blast, but now you go and get yourself shot."

"Hey, at least I know you still care," I tried to get her to smile. Old Trish would have smiled at that.

"You're not making this any easier by being a smart ass. I'll interrogate you later. First: have you suffered any other injuries apart from the small calibre bullet wound to your left side? Did you hurt your back or neck? Did you bump your head? I don't know why I let Zeke move you to a sitting position..."

"Small calibre?" It didn't feel small, it felt like a blob of molten metal the size of a softball had taken up residence in my ribs. A softball-sized blob of molten metal covered in barbed wire and little bits of broken glass.

"Cole, are you hurt anywhere else?"

"Oh, uh..." All things considered, I was feeling pretty okay, now that somebody else was worrying about the whole being shot part. "No, just – just the one bullet."

"Good."

"Good," I repeated weakly, looking into her face as she examined my wound. Trish was beautiful even when she was business-like, even in the dim light and the ugly city air.

"Cole? Cole, I need you to move your hand." I'd clamped my right hand over the wound and apparently wouldn't move it.

God, she was beautiful. What did she ever see in me? I was just a bike messenger, a barely-glorified delivery guy who didn't even own a delivery truck.

"Cole, I know you're in shock, but I need to see the wound to treat it. It's a miracle you haven't bled out yet. If we're lucky, it was a glancing blow and the bullet isn't even in you." She was wrong; I could feel the bullet grating against my rib. Somehow, though, the pain was bearable. Mostly, I just felt weak and sore.

Trish reached over to move my hand aside but pulled back as soon as she brushed the skin. "Ow!" she cried, jerking her hands away. Sucking on her fingertips like they were burnt, she glared at me over her hands as if I'd betrayed her, as if I'd meant to hurt her.

I sighed heavily. This was not the best time for the big reveal, but it had been several days in coming. "Trish, I know you're busy all day every day at the hospital and there hasn't been much time for us to see each other, forget talk, but there's something I need to tell you. Something important."

"Cole, if you're trying to guilt me with more relationship crap, it can wait. You've been shot, for god's sake, how are you even thinking about this?"

"Trish, you don't understand, this is –"

Right on cue, just in time for the very personal moment where yours truly reveals his secret identity to the love of his life, Zeke comes crashing up the stairs with his arms full of stuff.

"Trish!" he called, "a hand here?" I cursed Zeke under my breath, but only mildly. Who else could I count on to not freak out when I'd been shot? Apparently not my doctor girlfriend.

Trish turned to help Zeke. He had a stack of towels – since when did Zeke have pink and yellow dish towels with floral trim? On top was perched a huge glass mixing bowl full of steaming water.

Now, Zeke may be chubby, but he's not a clutz. He sometimes went for jogs with me, even tried his hand at urban climbing every now and again. I'm pretty sure he did it just so we could hang out, but he never complained even when it was clear he couldn't keep up for long. He was a pretty good shot with his six-shooter, too. Yet, despite the fact that he's generally well-coordinated for a tubby dude, Zeke managed to trip on the second-to-last stair, carrying all that stuff.

Luckily for her, the bowl of hot water flew clear past Trish and she was instead hit in the face with the larger part of a pile of pink and yellow towels. As soon as it hit the floor of the roof, the bowl shattered, dousing me with water.

Once I came home from the hospital after the blast I'd learned pretty quickly to stay away from any body of water larger than a small puddle. The result of my trying to take a shower for the first time was sore, stiff muscles and a completely shattered tub in an abandoned apartment downstairs. Afterward, I'd promised myself I'd stick to sponge baths like they'd given me at the hospital. Explaining the event had been humiliating, but it was Zeke. Zeke was like my brother and, true to the spirit of our bond, he only teased me about it a couple of times a day.

Sparks flew from my skin as soon as the hot water touched it. I jumped to my feet with the shock of the initial dowsing – each little droplet barely stung, but that first wash of water drained me involuntarily, which hurt. Bolts of electricity arced to the ground and skittered across the surface of the shallow puddle that was forming amidst the broken glass. As I managed to step a few feet back from the water, the flurry of electric activity died down to a faint shimmer up and down my legs and on my hands. The skin on my legs and my feet itched madly. It felt like some vital energy was leaking out of me, being soaked up by the water and carried away. The smoking air smelled a bit like burned flesh.

Trish stared, first at my sparking legs, then at my blood-stained side, then my sparking hands. Zeke got back to his feet, quickly surveying the damage. I was standing, trying not to sway in my lightheadedness. Apparently I managed it, because Zeke nodded to himself.

"Shit. Sorry about that. Did I scald ya?"

"What?" I noticed that the puddle was still steaming. If the water hadn't have been near boiling before it touched me, it certainly was closer now. I never felt any of the heat. "No, man. Though, Zeke? I think I could use some juice."

He nodded again, catching my drift. I watched him shuffle down the stairs again. What a guy.

I reached a hand out to the low brick wall at the edge of the building and used it to steady myself as I shook each leg in turn, eager to let fly the little drops of water that clung to my pants. I thought to myself that I should have invested in those waterproof running pants I was thinking of buying before the blast – the ones with the star on the leg. Shaking the pantlegs was really just for show, though. I was focusing on getting the sparks coming from my hands under control. I breathed in and out slowly and the dancing sparks died down to a dim but steady glow.

Not good enough. Trish was still staring at me, but now she didn't spare a glance at the bullet wound.

"What is going on here, Cole?"

I motioned to the couch. It was ten feet away but those ten feet looked a mile to me. "Trish, maybe we should sit down."

"Forget what Zeke said, Cole. I'm not in shock. I am here, now, in the moment." Her voice was hard, almost angry. "Tell me what's going on, or so help me, I will leave you here, bullet wound or no."

I sighed. I knew she wouldn't leave me; she'd sworn the Hippocratic Oath to do no harm and besides, she truly cared about helping people in need. Even when the person in need happened to be an idiot like me. "I will tell you, Trish, I've been trying to tell you, but I need to sit down. Kinda been shot, right?"

How was it we kept forgetting about the part where I'd been shot? Normal people do not get shot. Bike delivery guys are not supposed to get shot. But then, bike delivery guys don't stop crime by dropping down from the top of three-storey buildings surrounded by halos of electricity, either.

I walked over to the couch, side still throbbing in a dull way. Mostly, I was just dead tired. I turned to face the breeze but pulled the blanket around me. The air felt refreshing on my face, the blanket was to hide my sparking hands.

Trish came to stand in front of me but did not sit down. Her mouth was a thin line and her eyes were narrowed, sharp and discerning. No shadow of her earlier, shocked expression was visible. This was the face she wore in the Emergency Room, I knew. This was Trish the Doctor, Trish the Emergency Technician. She was thoroughly trained to deal with everything from heart attacks and car accident victims to sprained ankles and, yes, even gunshot wounds.

I couldn't meet those critical eyes, so I looked over her shoulder at the skyline. The Historic District would have been visible from here, were there power. Now, the moon and a surprising number of stars reflected in the bay. I'd run through this conversation in my head a hundred times in the past few days. None of the times had the hypothetical conversation started with my being shot.

"Trish, do you remember the day I left the hospital?"

"Of course. You woke up and recovered remarkably quickly. Minimal superficial tissue damage. But being quick to heal doesn't mean you can take a bullet, Cole." I was starting to doubt that last statement.

I threw my hands in the air. "Stop it," I growled, for the first time letting my exhaustion – and my frustration – show. I felt my fingers tingling slightly. Trish's glance fell to my lap and her eyes widened. She took a small step back.

Seeing that backward step hurt more than being shot.

I held up my hands and clenched my fists. Shutting my eyes, I took one more deep breath and, exhaling, opened them again. "When I woke up from the coma – the coma I slipped into after I'd nearly been _declared legally dead – _I was weak. And then something happened, and then I got better. You're the doctor, Trish, so tell me: what happened to make me get better?" I'm sure the harsh light coming from my hands must have painted my pale and angry face a frightening mask, but dammit I was tired and wet and my smart girlfriend – my incredibly intelligent girlfriend – was refusing to accept reality.

And I'd been shot.

She wasn't making it any easier for me to accept this tiring, wet, bullet-ridden reality. I suddenly felt more drained than ever and the frustration that clenched my fists dissipated. This wasn't her fault any more than the blast that killed thousands of people, her sister among them, had been Zeke's or mine.

"That – that was just an equipment malfunction. The circuits were overloaded at the hospital and... and..." Trish's eyes searched my face, pleading. I couldn't bear to look her in the eye and instead looked at my hands in my lap. Even as I willed it not to be so, tiny sparks, like little arcs of bright lightning, continually played across my twitching finger tips. Perhaps they would do so even if I were to die. I was too tired to care.

There was a soft cough from the stairwell.

Trish turned to Zeke as he came into view. He looked at her kindly, but said nothing. There was nothing to say.

"It's not medically possible."

"I ain't a doctor," Zeke began, stepping forward, "but I can show you a neat trick that I sure as hell can't explain." In his arms he held a stack of three car batteries.

As Zeke walked over to me, I looked to Trish. The last vestiges of my anger slipped away when I saw the worried look on her face. I knew the logic of her world would not accept what she was about to see. Her logic, the sound logic that helped form all of her medical knowledge, did not allow for a world with things like me, like what I'd become. "Trish, you might want to step back," I said.

I directed Zeke to put the batteries on the empty beer keg that served as a table at the opposite end of the couch. He arched a questioning eyebrow but set the stack down just the same. I'm glad he did. I could feel the batteries, like tiny sparks of power, pitifully weak but sparks none the less. It made my weary bones burn with something akin to hunger. I felt hollow and empty and here was a source of just the energy my body so desperately needed.

It was easy. I held up my right hand toward the pile of batteries and, without even trying to draw it, I felt electricity streaming toward me. It arced from the blackened negative terminals of the car batteries and came straight to my palm in a flash. In less than a second, I had drained the batteries completely dry. It felt good. I felt more awake and a bit stronger, a bit more alert. It wasn't nearly enough. I looked around hungrily.

"Damn, man," Zeke murmured. Until then, it had taken a fair amount of concentration to draw energy from his stash of car batteries and even more focus to push energy the opposite way, charging the batteries one by one. Always, I had needed to place my hands within a few inches of the battery to make the connection and get things flowing.

Trish nodded slowly, unblinking. She was staring at the space over the couch through which the bolt of energy had passed. "You're right," she said, "I need to sit down."

"Here," I said, standing up, "take the couch." I felt antsy, a bit restless, and I _definitely_ wanted another hit of electricity. "Zeke, can you explain? I need to find something more to uh..." Might as well call a spade a spade, "I need to find something bigger to drain."

Zeke's eyes appraised me over the rim of his shades. "Cole, you were shot, remember? That's your blood over there all over the fire escape? You sure you're okay walking around?"

I bounced on my toes, shifting my weight from foot to foot. I reached my hand to my injured side. "It's funny; it doesn't really hurt any more." As soon as my hand covered the wound, I felt energy surge out through my palm. There was a flash of light and I heard a small metal clink as something hit the ground. Warmth radiated through my side, circling outward. Suddenly, the pain lessened to that of a week-old bruise. Comparatively, it felt good. _I_ felt good.

Zeke and Trish stared at the ground at my feet. I squatted down, hamstrings a bit stiff. Amping up my hand to glow brighter, I saw the glint of metal. It was flattened shape, roughly a disk but with wrinkled, folded edges. I had taken a bullet, walked three blocks to my friend's place, climbed up his fire escape, almost had an argument with my girlfriend, and been electrocuted by a stack of car batteries from six feet away. And I walked away from it all feeling good, feeling _strong_.

I flicked the remains of the bullet through the air at Zeke with my most devil-may-care grin. "Catch," I called, spinning around and running for the edge of the building.

Trish cried out when I took a running leap. As I plummeted through the air down to the alleyway below I heard Zeke sigh, "Yea, he does that. Lemme explain..."

In a few minutes I'd climb back to talk with Trish, help her come to grips with things. But Zeke was always a smoother talker than me, and the story would be easier to hear from somebody whose skin wasn't glowing with electricity.

Jumping off the roof may have looked cool, but it was a damned dumb idea. The landing knocked the wind out of me and I needed to recharge before my knees gave out. I had just been shot, after all.

I'd also saved a happy young couple from being mugged by some thugs. Thanks to my new-found resilience, I'd been able to make the world a better place, if only by a little. Trish would get over the shock – maybe not as eagerly as Zeke, but she'd manage. We'd manage, like I'd managed the bullet wound will a little help from my friends.

I placed my hands on the hood of a car parked need the entrance to the alley. I could sense power lingering there. I carefully extracted that power, feeling it course up my arms and into my body, repairing my knees, mending the last traces of the bullet wound, fixing the patches of skin scalded earlier by the hot water. Then the energy pooled in me, refilling and restoring me. It made me feel good. It made me feel strong, quick and powerful.

I had saved the day earlier. And maybe, if I was careful enough and clever enough, I could do it again. I had learned it would take lot more than a bullet to keep me down.


	14. 14 Trish

**14. Trish**

Cole had just expelled a bullet from his skin and jumped off the roof of the building. He jumped off a building. I ran to the roof's edge, looking down and holding back a scream. Not him. Not him too.

But I arrived just in time to see him sprint down the alley and around the corner. He'd survived the fall. Survived, with a bullet wound, and run away. This couldn't be happening. It had to be a dream. My knees went weak and I clutched the brick wall at the edge of the roof.

Zeke walked over. "Trish, come sit on the couch. Cole is fine. More than fine. I am going to explain."

He guided to me to my feet. I walked numbly to the couch and sat down automatically.

"Now, Trish, you're a smart girl," he began.

Zeke's compliments always made me uncomfortable. He'd never try any advances – he valued Cole's friendship too much – but I sometimes got the feeling he wished he hadn't introduced us all those years ago. Then he'd have Cole's friendship to himself. Poor Zeke, always getting the short end of the stick, always making do instead of complaining.

Seeing my discomfort and perhaps guessing why, he pulled his usual camp chair over instead of sitting next to me on the couch.

"Look," he said, leaning back with a sigh, "You've probably already put two and two together."

I had, of course. But this four wasn't physically possible.

"Cole's not normal, not since the blast. Whatever happened in the Historic District, it changed him. You saw him drain those batteries. He sort of... he eats it now, I guess. Electricity."

"No, no, no." I shook my head. This wasn't happening. This was anything but reality. I'd suffered a concussion during the blast. I was dreaming. I was hallucinating. It was a bad practical joke on their part.

My fingers were trembling in my lap. Zeke leaned forward and gently took my hands in his. "Trish, there isn't any other explanation."

I look down. Tears slipped from my eyes onto our hands in my lap. "That's not an explanation. It's fantasy."

"This is really happening, Trish. Yes, it's weird as hell but... Hey, isn't it kinda cool, too? At least a little?"

He was looking at me over the top of his sunglasses, eyes brimming with the excitement of a young boy on Christmas morning.

"I don't know, Zeke..." I withdrew my hands and pulled my knees to my chest.

"Look at it this way: it means you don't have to worry about him so much. If he's going to go around climbing buildings – and you know he will, he did that before the blast, even though you didn't like it – at least now he won't hurt himself. And even if he does, he can heal like that," he snapped, "quick as you please."

"Because the electricity heals him somehow." My voice was hollow.

He nodded. "Yep. He drinks that stuff quicker'n frat boys drain a keg."

I knew Zeke was trying to cheer me up. I was surprised to realize he was succeeding, at least a little. Ever since Cole's second electrocution at the hospital and his subsequent escape, I'd been throwing myself into my work in an attempt to avoid thinking about it. Because electric powers couldn't be real. There was no sensible medical explanation, so I kept too busy to allow thoughts to surface to the top of my mind where I knew they'd drive me crazy.

Having someone else to talk to about it helped. I could say aloud what I'd been trying not to think. Hearing myself talk about these crazy ideas forced me to face the impossibilities I'd been avoiding, but seeing Zeke nod in understanding was a relief.

"So I'm not crazy?" I sniffed.

"You, crazy? Hell no. You've got a good head on your shoulders. Your gut tells you something is funny, you should trust it. But remember, we gotta talk about stuff now, help each other out. Hey, maybe your medical knowledge can help Cole understand what's going on."

I was pretty certain that any research I did into the medical aspects of electric super-powers would turn up empty-handed.

"I dunno, Zeke. Everything I know tells me Cole should be dead right now."

Zeke was not to be lead off track. "Let's start with the basics, then. What should have happened to him? How does the body use electricity, anyway?"

"Well," I began, forcing myself to relax and enter Knowledgeable Doctor Mode. I paused, thinking about the question for the first time. Visions of EKG, MRI, and EEG read-outs swam in my mind alongside glimpses of figures from the hundreds of pages of textbooks and case studies I'd read during medical school. "Electrodes – sensors of electricity – placed almost anywhere on the body will pick up bio-electric signals. Mostly we study the electrical impulses of the brain, especially during sleep or during epileptic seizures, but researchers have also determined the electric potential of a single muscle cell and even a single neuron. Zeke, do you know what 'action potential' is?"

"Hey, whenever I'm around, there's plenty of potential for action. In fact, you can call me Captain Action. Cole's my side-kick. We call him Sparky."

We shared a laugh. I began to explain the electrical aspects of muscle and nerve firing to Zeke, beginning with calcium and potassium ion channels. He nodded now and again but didn't make any other jokes. I felt like I was giving a lecture. Just when I was sure my explanations had lost him entirely and he was only letting me talk so I'd feel better, he interrupted with a very precise question. I'd gotten my wording backward and confused him.

"Wow, Zeke. You're paying attention. I'm impressed."

Zeke shrugged, rubbing the back of his head. "Some of this information might come in handy. Knowledge is power, knowing is half the battle, all that."

"Don't believe a word he says; he's just quoting _G.I. Joe_."

"Cole!" I jumped up. My boyfriend's head was rising into view as he climbed the top of the fire escape. I rushed over. As he pulled himself up, he looked perfectly healthy. I circled him, eying the skin of the back of his neck. Still no scar.

Zeke was grinning again. "Welcome back, man. How ya feeling?"

"Cheated."

"What?"

"If knowing is half the battle, then fighting must be the other half. Why does Zeke get the easy half, leaving me with the fighting?" Thinking back, that joke was closest I ever heard Cole get to complaining about his powers.

Zeke laughed. "Maybe, but by the looks of it, you're having all the fun."

"You call getting shot fun?"

"Cole," he looked down, into my eyes, face a stiff mask. I had to look away. "Can we talk?"

"Sure thing, Babe. Did Zeke tell you everything?"

"Enough. I'm still not sure I believe it. This is going to take some time to sink in." I crossed my arms, hugging myself.

"Tell you what: Zeke'll drive you back to the hospital for the night and we'll talk tomorrow. I promise."

"You're really okay?"

"My doctor gave me a clean bill of health just this afternoon. Didn't she?"

With a slow nod, I let him lead me to the fire escape, Zeke in tow. Maybe there wasn't much to talk about after all. Cole was alive and healthy, thanks to electricity. I was going to have to accept that, whatever it meant.

* * *

><p>And with that, we've reached the halfway point through the story. The stage is almost set for some Bad Things to happen. I'd love to hear a comment from you, loyal reader. It's far from over yet.<p> 


	15. 15 Cole

**15. Cole **

The Reaper was down. I kicked the knives aside and turned to the injured civilian. Crumpled on the ground, the victim was lucky that I'd decided to go for a run to clear my head after Trish left. Seeing her so confused and tired made me angry. I hadn't even trusted myself to give her a comforting hug.

The old man's breath was raspy and there was blood everywhere. I knelt to apply pressure to his wounded sides. Mindful of my sparking hands, I pulled all my energy back as deeply as I could.

Pulling was a mistake. With the same flow that I had felt from Reaper on the rooftop below the water tower, I drained something from the injured man, some essence.

My mind overflowed with flashbacks to wars. I saw ghosts of tanks rolling through the alley, vanishing into wisps of green smoke as they passed into the brick walls. German tanks. He was a war veteran. As he remembered being a teenager shipped overseas to fight in World War II, I remembered it as well. And war again, in Korea. And again in Viet Nam. The scenes of violence flashed in rapid succession, but mixed in were memories of a wife, memories of seeing his children grow. In a matter of seconds, I lived his life as he died at my feet.

The old man gasped. His thoughts became less coherent, with long-term memories of loved ones and younger years fading out of focus until one sharp image remained: the deranged face of a Reaper, blades shining red in each hand. Flinching, I dodged ghostly knives that plunged for my stomach even as the overwhelming pain brought tears to my eyes, causing my vision to waver.

The anger of the veteran was potent. He had witnessed enough death in his lifetime to know that it was his time. But still he fought, coughing and cursing. He had one dying wish: to kill the Reaper in a slow, sick way, with the sharpened-bamboo punji sticks of Viet Nam. As the old man slipped into unconsciousness, his life blood leaking away, he imagined brutalizing the thug with a bat, with a spear, and finally with his own knives. His thoughts were no longer words, only fierce emotion.

I shut my eyes against the ghostly images but could not block out the man's longing for violent retribution.

There was a scraping sound to my left. I opened my eyes to see the stunned Reaper jump to his feet and bolt down the alleyway. He reached a chain-link fence and began to climb over it, wheezing.

I was lucky. If he'd chosen to attack instead of run away, I might not have been able to react in time. I shoved aside as much of the old man's mental presence as I could and stood up shakily. My hands flared to life. With the surge of energy, my head cleared considerably.

The thug cleared the top of the fence, rolling over the side and falling to the ground. Without taking time to aim carefully, I began firing bolt after bolt of electricity. Even if I was no longer maintaining physical contact with him, my thoughts were still tinged with the old man's hatred. I wanted the Reaper dead, no matter how painfully.

Tendrils of lightning wrapped around the fence, weaving in and out of the chain. I snarled, pumping my hands as I fired.

The Reaper scrambled to his feet and continued running down the alley. There was no time to both help the old man and get the killer. I looked down at the veteran again and realized it was over. Blood seeping steadily, he was already unconscious. Never to awaken again, he could no longer feel any pain.

I scrambled over the fence, cursing. When I caught up with this thug, there was going to be hell to pay.

The killer was tall, with long legs and a quick stride, but I was faster and fueled by rage, both the old man's lingering anger and my own. I reached the mouth of the alley in time to see a shadow vault over the hedge surrounding the park across the street. The figure ran straight for a copse of trees in the middle of the park, a fleeing dark spot racing over the lawn.

I sprinted across the street, charging up my hands and roaring. This was one mother-fucker who was not going to get away. The instant I had both feet on the opposite sidewalk, I pushed off the ground to clear the hedge in a running leap.

I sailed over the bushes easily, firing off shots of lightning at the retreating killer's back. I needed to hit him before he reached the cover of the trees. My advantage in speed would do no good if I couldn't spot him.

Both my feet hit the ground simultaneously in an explosion of pain. I collapsed to my knees, white electricity flaring all around me. I'd landed in a puddle of water. Not a puddle, a pool. A child's plastic wading pool, abandoned in the park still full of toys and four inches of lukewarm water.

My hands went dark as all of my stored energy raced out of my legs into the water. Every inch of my skin was on fire. I screamed, groping blindly as my vision, shot through with black flecks, faded. Somehow I coordinated my spasming leg muscles enough to collapse on the side of the pool, my shoulder crumpling its thin plastic edge.

Water swirled past my face as it flowed out of the pool and onto the park grass. From the pain, it could have been molten lava. Sparks flew from my skin, my mouth, and from the surface of my eyeballs as droplets contacted me. I tasted blood in my mouth. I was biting my tongue.

The pool was emptying quickly as the water continued to drain downhill. I rolled my hips over the crumpled pool wall, just managing to get my body out of the deepest part of the flow. I lay in a panting heap, muscles locked and sparks flying. My bones hurt, my joints hurt, even my teeth hurt. I sat up, sweeping my gaze over the park. The thug had gotten away. I felt a flare of anger as some remnant of the old man realized he would never have his revenge.

I turned and retched into the grass. When my gagging was nothing but a rasping series of dry heaves, I staggered back into the street, draining car batteries on my way home. Arriving at Zeke's place, I climbed up via the fire escape ladder like a mere mortal.

I tried to collapse on the couch, but it was already occupied.

"Yow!" Zeke bolted upright as I sat on his knees. His hands flew to the holster at his hip. I jumped to my feet, hands flaring with sparks.

"Zeke! It's me."

Zeke relaxed. "I figured, seeing as you've completely blinded me." He groped around for his sunglasses, placing them high on his nose after rubbing his eyes. I sat in a camp chair.

"Where were you, anyway?" He asked through a yawn.

I briefly ran through the night's adventures, careful to omit anything about the old man's dying thoughts. My mind wasn't ready to accept the black enormity of that wish. I was even more afraid I wouldn't be able to forget it. "...And that's when I jumped into the kiddie pool of death."

"What?"

"I landed into a plastic pool full of water. Immediate light show. It hurt like you wouldn't believe."

He let out a belly laugh. "You can take a bullet and shoot lightning from your hands, but you can't stand in a kiddie pool? I thought you learned your lesson with the shower the other day. I guess water and electricity really don't mix."

Still bitter, I snapped at him. "Where'd you learn a clever phrase like that, Zeke?" Probably a Saturday morning cartoon.

He kept right on grinning. "Shop class. Still got the scars to prove it."

"Whatever. Look, I'm drained."

"Take the couch, I'm good on sleep for now."

"You sure?"

"Sure I'm sure. It's only seven in the morning. I would have been up in another... three or four hours anyway."

I collapsed into the couch. As I shut my eyes, I began to hear voices again, their ghostly owners drifting through my mind like pale green mists. I was exhausted, but it was a long time before I blocked out the old man's memories and fell asleep.


	16. 16 Zeke

**16. Zeke**

"Hey, Z."

I removed the binoculars from my eyes. Military planes had been circling the Historic District since early that morning. Choppers, too. I pulled my foot down from where I'd propped it on the roof perimeter wall and turned to face Cole. He was sitting on the couch. Must have just woken up.

"What's up?"

"I've been thinking... you still got that six shooter?"

I patted my hip where my jacket bulged over the form of the gun in its holster. "Yea, man. Carry it with me always. For safety, you know."

"Good," he grunted, standing up.

"You got something in mind?" If he worked on that lightning gun trick, he and I could make a great team, maybe even take out a few Bad Guys.

"Yea, I do."

"Well alright. What's the plan?"

"I want you to shoot me."

"S'funny, with the way your voice has gotten all gravelly, it almost sounded like you asked me to shoot you."

"That is what I said. You got spare ammunition to spend?"

"Ammunition's not the problem, Cole. The problem is my best friend has fried his brains and is asking me to shoot him."

"We'll start with the foot if you're going to be a pansy about it."

"Just the other night, you came here, shot and nearly bleeding to death. You're asking me to repeat that?"

"It'll be fine, Zeke. I've... worked on things since then."

"Your powers are great and all, but a bullet is a bullet. You're taking enough damage as it is just running off rooftops."

"I'm not and you know it. Falling doesn't hurt at all."

"It's just the landing," I quipped.

"Dammit, Zeke, are you going to help me or not?" He reached for the gun at my side but I turned, blocking him with my body.

"Look," his tone was one usually reserved for explaining simple concepts to small children. "When I drain power, it heals me. You saw that the other night. Not only did that bullet not damage me permanently, it actually didn't hurt all that much. Mostly, I was in shock."

That wasn't the way I remembered it. "You were bleeding out on the floor."

He groaned, turning on his heels and rubbing his hands through his short hair. When he turned back around to face me, he seemed more calm.

"Look, I know it sounds crazy –"

"Damn right it does. Shoot my own best friend –"

"But you've gotta understand, I've got it more under control now. Any time I drain power I heal, and fast."

"Maybe. But you'll still have been shot," I pointed out.

He shook his head. "Won't matter if the bullet never makes it in."

"What are you saying?"

"Look, can you just trust me on this?"

"No." I wasn't some kid; I didn't treat my firearm like a toy. Even if I did sometimes pretend I was John Wayne when I visited the firing range.

"Okay. Okay, it makes sense that you're skeptical. First, remember how that Reaper's bullet fell out of me when I healed after juicing up?"

"Yea."

"You remember what the bullet looked like?"

"Flat."

He nodded. "Like it had impacted something pretty hard."

"Yea, I guess that makes sense."

"I've been thinking about that flat bullet for a while. I think I know what happened. Watch."

He went sparky, but not in a big, showy way. His skin started flickering, in dim patches at first and then all over. He got it steady after a second or two.

"Then I sort of push." The second skin expanded outward a hair's breadth, becoming slightly more opaque. He looked at me and grinned.

"That what I think it is?" I asked.

"I think so. It feels like a protective shell or shield, anyhow. Kinda hard, I guess. Strong."

I rested my left hand on the gun. "Strong enough to stop a bullet?"

He nodded. "If not, definitely strong enough to slow it down. I'll juice up right now, to make sure I'm at full strength. And we'll keep the batteries nearby, just in case."

"You really want me to do this?" I wasn't sure I could. Not because I didn't believe he'd survive it and not because I didn't think he could heal – I'd seen him jump from an eight storey building for fun. It was the principle. The guy was like my brother; nothing in the world could make me willfully shoot him.

"I'd do it myself but it's your gun."

I realized that if it wasn't me shooting him in the foot, he'd go and find another, even more reckless way to put himself in serious danger just to see what happened. Some things never changed.

"Fine. Get the batteries and stand over there." I gestured to one of the mannequins I'd set up around the roof. Home Alone style, they made the place seem more occupied at night. Safety in numbers. Or, in this case, safety in the illusion of numbers.

I drew the weapon, checked the safety, inspected the chamber, checked the safety again, and holstered it once more. I caught a now-familiar whiff of ozone as Cole drained one of the batteries. He was glowing steadily now.

I walked to the far end of the roof and scanned downrange. It wasn't likely that anybody would be on the roof across the way, but I wasn't in the habitat of shooting without looking where the bullets were going.

"In the foot, right?" I asked.

"Anywhere. And Zeke? Don't give me a warning or countdown or anything. Just do it."

He'd shut his eyes, facing me with his hands at his sides. The shell around him seemed too thin to stop a bullet, but I guessed we were about to find out.

I mentally counted down from ten to calm my own nerves. On eight I raised the weapon, aiming at his foot and steadying my gun hand, the left, with my right. On ten I pulled the trigger.

There was a sharp click. Cole jumped a little, eyes flying open. His hands flared.

"Safety was on. Sorry 'bout that." I flicked off the safety, squared my firing stance, and drew the gun to eye level again.

"And here I thought you were a professional," he began, but I squeezed the trigger before he could continue the taunt.

I'd been afraid I would chicken out, so I had fired as quickly as I reasonably could. Cole let out a sharp, quick shout and dropped one knee to the roof. I thumbed the safety back into place and holstered the weapon as I jogged over.

Sparks were flying everywhere. What a stupid plan. How was I going to explain this to Trish?

I couldn't get too close for fear of being shocked, but I noticed there wasn't any blood. That was a good sign. He was hunched over. Maybe I should move the stack of fresh batteries closer.

"Cole! You alright?"

He looked up, slowly unwrapping his arms from around his leg. For the second time in as many days, I heard the sound of a bullet hitting the roof tar. It glinted in the light of a hundred bolts of electricity swarming around his arms and legs.

"Ow," he said. His skin was pale, kinda pasty-looking.

"Ow?"

"Yea, ow." He sat down on his butt right there on the roof. I used my boot to nudge a battery closer to him. He reached for it like it was a tall cool glass of lemonade on a hot day.

"You shot me."

"You asked for it!"

"Yea, I did," his face relaxed as he dragged the battery into his lap and drained it. "Thanks."

"So what's the verdict?"

He rolled up his pant leg with one hand, still draining the battery with the other. Before my eyes, the deep purple bruise on his leg shrank from the size of a dinner plate to a small, faded smudge.

He poked his finger through the bullet hole in his pant leg. "It didn't hurt so much as drain me. When the bullet hit that shell I had built up, it knocked the wind right out of me."

"But it did deflect the bullet."

"Not as much as I'd hoped. And I was really focusing, too. What if I was surprised or distracted and something hit me? I wouldn't have time to throw up a tight-knit shell like that."

I wondered what exactly he had in mind with these thoughts of being surprised and shot. "Sounds like you'd better plan on not being shot."

"Or I should practice." He stood up. "Do it again, will you?"

I weighed the idea in my mind. He was clearly going somewhere with all this training. Probably just wanted to protect me and Trish, which was reasonable considering her literal run-in with a Reaper on the street the other day.

"I guess. But only a couple more rounds. I don't want to draw attention with lots of gunfire."

He nodded, brushing his hands together lightly. He wasn't dropping sparks anymore and he put weight on the leg I'd shot as if nothing had happened. "Good point. Only a few more. Actually, before we do it again, I have one more idea. Here, give me the gun." He reached for it.

I looked at his outstretched hand skeptically. "Not gonna shoot yourself, are you?"

"Nah. If I can get a feel for the bullets it might be easier for me to stop them. Like... like I'm calibrating the shield."

That made about as much sense as anything else that was going on, I supposed. Shrugging, I reversed my grip, holding the gun out to him by the barrel. He took it gently, keeping his fingers away from the trigger. I stepped back.

He closed his eyes and sparked up his free hand. Something about the image didn't sit right with me but before I could say anything, he'd released a shimmering pulse of blue-white electricity toward the six shooter.

The gun exploded in his hand. That's what happens when you spark gun powder: it explodes. Looking back, it had been a pretty dumb plan all around.

Cole cursed, dropping the charred, bent remains of the gun frame as he shook his hand. He looked for all the world like a guy who'd just hammered his thumb instead of the nail. I couldn't help but laugh. It was a shame to lose such a fine weapon, but the look of surprise on his face was pretty funny.

"Damn near took off my hand!"

"I thought you wanted to take some damage."

He looked up at me, still holding his left hand in his right. "Actually, that's true." He looked back down at his hand. It was charred with gunsmoke but as he flexed it he didn't flinch. His upper arm lit up as a wave of electricity rolled down from his chest and shoulder to the hand. When the pulse reached the charred skin the shimmer faded, like his skin was sucking the electricity in again. After a few seconds, the blisters had healed and he was grinning again. I whistled low in appreciation.

"I guess that answers that question. Remind me to never get in a knife fight with you, Brother; I don't think I'd win."

Cole's face lit up as he remembered something. "One other thing: last night, I tried to shoot through a chain-link fence."

"So you could see what was on the other side?"

He frowned. "No, so I could nail the guy as he ran away."

"Some jokes are completely lost on you. Anyway, what happened?"

"My lightning – it got all caught up in the fence. Didn't go through at all. The guy who killed the old man got away."

"Huh," I grunted. "I guess that's to be expected. The fencing acts as a Faraday cage."

"English, Zeke."

"The metal in the fence conducts your juice, right? So electricity can't pass through the holes in the fence because following the metal of the wires is the quicker way to the ground, that's all."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Good to know."

He walked over to the roof's edge, stretching.

"Hey, man, before you disappear again, I got something for you."

"Going to see Trish," he grunted.

"Yea, unless you run into yet another mugging and decide to play hero on the way over," I grinned.

Cole scowled but turned around to face me, tapping a foot impatiently.


	17. 17 Cole

**17. Cole**

"For the last time, Z, I'm not interested in eating any more of your stale crackers with Cheeze-Whiz."

"You and me both. Anyhow, Trish was getting stressed out, not knowing where you were and all. After she called for the hundredth time last night, I decided to hook you up with this." He held up what looked like a cell phone in a leather sheath.

"What's is it?"

"A cell phone in a leather sheath. Gimme your shoulder bag a second, will you?"

I shrugged the bag off and handed it to him. He hummed a few bars of "Ride of the Valkyries" as he worked, twirling a flathead screwdriver like a baton.

"There ya go," he said, handing the bag back after several minutes of fiddling. I slung the bag over my shoulder, adjusting it so the phone was roughly at ear height.

Zeke punched the keys of his own phone. I looked down expectantly. After a moment, the cell rang. I reached for it.

"Don't!" Zeke batted away my hand. "Don't touch it. It'll pick up automatically."

So it did. Zeke canceled the call from his end and the display on my new cell went dim a moment later.

"So it's insulated?"

He nodded. "From your whole body."

"Zeke, I'm impressed. Where'd you learn this stuff?"

"You know, tinkering around. But if it blows up in your face, don't blame me. You probably generate some weird electromagnetic fields. I've tried to shield the phone from that sort of interference but there's only so much I can do. If I put it in a lead box, it won't get signal, especially not on the GPS."

"I'm going to go see Trish."

"I'll meet you there, but first I have to pick up some supplies. She said the hospital needs some electrical work done after your little light show; I figure I might be able to help. Beats sitting around here listening to your big fish stories of adventures in climbing. You know I don't believe a word you say, right?"

"Zeke, if I told you that I had evidence of a joint conspiracy among the CIA, the NSA, and the people who make Spam, you'd believe me."

He was grinning. "Yea, that's probably true. Hey, did I ever tell you about why Johnson and Johnson isn't a family company? It actually does have to do with the people who make Spam."

I shook my head ruefully. "Later. Tell me later."

"Alright, you get going."

"Thanks for the phone," I called over my shoulder, sprinting to the edge of the roof and jumping to catch the edge of the next building. I pulled myself up and did a spin, just to show off, knowing he was watching me.

I dropped onto the hospital roof fifteen minutes later after an easy, uneventful run. I'd seen one group of Reapers on a street corner but they weren't harassing any civilians and they never saw me. Nobody ever looks up.

After arriving I stretched my shoulders and rolled my ankles out of habit. My muscles were fluid and limber without showing a hint of the soreness the acrobatic run should have had me feeling.

I sighed. Thinking about the upcoming conversation made me nervous but there was no reason to delay the inevitable. I reached my hand to my shoulder and stopped just short of touching the leather phone case. How could I dial Trish's number if I couldn't touch the phone? Did it only take incoming calls? Trust Zeke to invent a one-way cell phone.

I pulled off the messenger bag and, holding it by the strap, examined the phone holster more carefully. The surface was smooth black leather with a plexiglass window, completely unadorned with buttons or dials of any type. There was a patch of velcro in the back, holding shut the flap through which Zeke had slipped the phone in the first place. Two screw heads were covered by scraps of leather, hot-glued in place. Zeke had done a meticulous job of making sure I'd never get in.

With its pale green, backlit display, the phone reminded me of a Frankenstein monster created from a leather motorcycle glove and old GameBoy parts. The battery and signal indicators were full. The word "ACTIVE" blinked next to a cryptic message in blocky black text: "VOX Recog."

VOX Recog? The second word was clearly "recognition." Visual Orientation... X-ray Recognition? Versatile Outdoor eXtra Recognition? None of the words that started with X made sense.

"Damn phone," I muttered. The phone beeped. I narrowed my eyes. The "VOX Recog." words were flashing. After about five seconds, they were replaced by a blinking "Try again" accompanied by a dull, flat tone. Then the "VOX Recog." message appeared again. Try again? Of course. Voice Recognition. Clearly Zeke needed a spelling lesson.

"Phone!" I barked. The chime sounded again and the display blinked. "Call Trish!"

The words changed to "Outgoing: Trish Dailey" and I heard a dial tone. While listening to the phone's electronic ring, I ran more hypothetical conversations through my head. Each one sounded stupider than the last. I sighed again. This wasn't going to be pretty.

"This is Trish."

"Hiya, Babe, it's me. Meet me on the roof, South wing, will you?"

"Can't you come to my office? I've got some paperwork I need to review. And you can help me haul all of the equipment you destroyed out to a dumpster." Even on speaker phone, I could hear the bitterness in her voice.

I cringed. "That's why I can't come in; I might fry more equipment just by walking by. I could shut down the whole building. Again."

She was silent.

"Trish?"

"Give me five minutes." The dial tone was loud in my ear.


	18. 18 Cole

**18. Cole**

While I waited for Trish to arrive on the roof, I got the phone to call Zeke. It took two tries. Apparently, "Z" was easier for the phone to understand. Or maybe he just liked the nickname.

"Hey, Cole. Using the new phone already?"

"It's a marvel – "

"Aw, shucks, you're too kind."

"It's a marvel I can use it at all, seeing as it didn't come with an operator's manual. What the hell is 'VOX,' anyhow?"

"Voice."

"And the O and the X? What do they stand for?"

"No, 'vox' means 'voice' in Latin. I thought you were the brains of this outfit."

I groaned. "Next time – " I began. The roof door opened. Trish stepped into the sunlight looking weary but beautiful.

"Gotta go."

Zeke grunted affirmative. "I'll be there soon. Meet you out back in twenty?"

"Sure thing. Uh... Phone?" I whispered, "Phone, _hang up_."

Zeke laughed. "It's 'End call.' "

"End call," I snarled. The phone beeped obligingly.

Trish stopped ten feet short of where I sat on an air conditioning duct.

"Hiya," I said, waving weakly.

"Hi." She walked closer but didn't wave back. She was wearing her white lab coat, the one with "Dr. Dailey" embroidered in dark blue over the breast pocket. The coat was wrinkled but meticulously clean.

"Trish, listen – " I began as she said "About last night – "

We both stopped.

I tried again, saying "You go first – " just as she said "I wanted to say – "

I caught her eye and we laughed. It was like in the old days, when we would constantly interrupt each other. It felt good to hear her laugh. It felt good to laugh, period. I patted the duct beside where I was sitting. She came and sat down. We had a great view of the parking lot. I pushed away memories about how I'd run away from her that first day, fleeing the hospital, and about how I'd wound up shocking Zeke accidentally. It felt like ages ago, not days.

After a few minutes, Trish murmured "A penny for your thoughts?"

I thought of the penny I'd zapped on Zeke's roof and held up my hand, curling the fingers into a fist. She was watching me.

"Can I show you something?"

She nodded, causing a curtain of brown hair to fall forward from behind her ear. I wanted to tuck the strands back into place, but instead I held out both hands, palms up and fingers wide.

She looked from my hands to my face and shifted. "Should I move? Sitting on a metal vent and all..."

"Stay put." I sprang to my feet, trying not to feel offended. She had a fair point.

I began by passing a spark from finger to finger and then a small ball of energy from hand to hand. She watched without a word, jaw tight. The dead look on her face was disheartening, almost like she was seeing through me. Frustrated, I let slip a bit too much energy and both hands flared. An arc of lightning escaped, streaking to the ground. She jumped back.

I pulled the electricity out of my hands. They winked out, completely dry.

She eyed me with suspicion. I walked over and sat down next to her again. She didn't look at me, but she didn't move away either. It was a start. I sighed, stretching my arms behind my back and leaning on them.

"Does it hurt?" Of course that would be the first thing she'd ask. I shook my head.

"Not at all."

"You can control it?"

"I've been working on that. I've gotten a lot better. It's... unruly. The electricity wants to go to the ground, or anything metal connected to the ground. It sort of flows throughout my body."

"You talk about it like it's alive."

"Nothing hokey like that. This isn't Captain Planet, nor am I going crazy and giving lightning bolts names or calling them "My Precious"."

"It sure _seems_ crazy," she countered.

I sighed again, bringing my arms forward to between my knees where I sat. Out of habit, I passed a bit of current back and forth, not thinking about it, hardly seeing it. "I know. It's funny: of the three of us, I think Zeke's the one who accepts it the best."

"He'd buy anything. Remember that time he went on and on about radioactive dryer lint?" She almost laughed before turning to me again. "Cole," she looked me in the eye, face full of the tender caring I hadn't realized I'd been desperate for. "Cole, I need you to know that, no matter what this... this _change_ means, I'll be here for you."

"When you're not at the hospital, that is."

Her features contorted. She stood, throwing her hands in the air in disgust. "Don't start guilt-tripping me with 'you never come to see me' crap. I have patients who need me here. Zeke won't say a word about what's going on with you and you won't set foot inside the hospital."

"Zeke fixed me up with a cell phone, so you can always know where I am. And we can talk now. Trish, I want to talk." I tried to keep my tone soothing. Where had this sudden anger come from?

"I'm trying to talk. You're making stupid jokes about Captain Planet and talking all New Age crap about living lightning. But thank you for reminding me of my medical duties, I should be going." She started walking toward the door, wiping the back of her hand under her eye.

"Trish, wait –" I hadn't even mentioned Amy and she was crying. She stopped in place, back stiff. When she didn't turn around, I said the only words that came to me.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what I said just now, but I'm sorry. I'm sorry that half of the Historic District is gone and our apartment went with it. I'm sorry that there are gangs in the streets and sick people in the gutters. I'm sorry that the power is out, that there's no hot water, and that people are too afraid to leave their homes. It's not my fault," I didn't add _but I intend to do something about it_. "But I"m sorry either way. And... I'm sorry that sometimes it's easier to talk to Zeke. I should have talked with you sooner. There's a lot going on." My shoulders slumped. I hadn't realized how much I'd bottled up.

Trish turned to face me, eyes red but dry. "Thank you," she said, "for apologizing. It's not your fault. But it is crazy." She sniffed. Even with a runny nose, she was beautiful.

"Z says you can absorb electricity to heal, so I guess that explains why you don't have any scars."

I nodded. "It heals me and fills up my reserve. Draining car battery is refreshing. The juice helps cushion me when I fall, too."

" 'Height doesn't matter if you don't fall.' " She murmured.

I grinned. So she had been paying attention all those times I'd reminded her that climbing wasn't so dangerous.

"I guess there's nothing to do but believe it all. But, from the medical perspective, I'm not so sure. Your heart could give way at any moment. Who knows what the electricity is doing to your body? I wished you'd let me take you in for some lab tests," she finished half-heartedly.

"I am fine. Trish, I love you. Please trust me."

Her eyes had never been clearer.

"Okay."


	19. 19 Cole

**19. Cole**

"I'll meet you there," I said as Zeke reached into his pocket for his keys. I saw a quick flash of his holster and noted he'd already picked up a replacement handgun.

"Nonsense. We'll all fit in the truck," Trish insisted.

Zeke and I exchanged glances.

"I, uh... can't ride in a car."

Trish narrowed her eyes. "Afraid your sparks'll get to the gas tank?"

"That... or if I accidentally power up, the chassis will conduct the juice and I'll fry you both. Look, I'll run ahead. Might even beat you there, unless this guy –" I rapped my knuckles on Zeke's arm "– still drives like he used to."

"Hey, man, I learned my lesson about speeding the night of that party. Besides, she'll be wearing her seatbelt. Won't you, Trish?"

She had her arms folded in front of her chest. "I'm going with Cole."

After a few minutes of heated debate, it was decided that we would all walk. Trish could drive Zeke back to his truck on her way back to the hospital.

We kept our pace brisk, using only the main streets and keeping our eyes sharp. I stayed on the building side of the sidewalk and, after a few minutes, Zeke moved to the streetside, keeping Trish between us. He tried whistling "We are the Champions" but after a few bars the notes died on his lips. The air was warm and stuffy, but the windows we passed were shuttered.

I tried to start a conversation. "You ever wonder what the Warren is like nowadays?"

"That place was hell long before any blast happened," Trish muttered.

"Sure was. The way I figure," Zeke said, "The Neon is the place to be, Reapers or not. The Historic District might have been home, but it's just a crater."

It was a grim thought, fitting the walk. There was no appropriate response. We became absorbed in our own musings again.

Two blocks from the apartment, I noticed somebody was tailing us.

"Zeke."

He grunted, nodding. He'd noticed as well. His hand was at his hip but he hadn't pulled the gun just yet. Good man.

I dropped back, pretending to tie my shoelace and scanning the area. Half a block up in the alley across the street, I noticed several figures in hooded red jackets. They were talking amongst themselves, but I could see that they were armed with large firearms. Only people up to no good walk around with rifles in broad daylight like that. Something glinted in the street, long and metallic.

It was a spike strip. If we'd come this way in the truck, the tires would have blown out and we'd be sitting ducks. As it was, we were more mobile and presented a less valuable target. I stood up and half-jogged to catch up with Zeke and Trish.

"Let's go," I muttered, quickening the pace.

I'd pulled Zeke out of a bar fight or two in the past. In those days, he'd joked that I was a lover, not a fighter. Trish had taken a couple of self-defense courses at a local gym and knew some elbow blocks and a couple of judo throws, but they weren't ready to take on a gang of thugs, especially not one so heavily-armed and well-connected as Reapers.

The group in the alley watched as we passed them by. My nerves we taut. With my hands jammed in my pockets, it took most of my concentration to keep from sparking up.

One of the group peeled off to walk parallel us across the street, weapon held loosely in one hand. I scanned the rooftops: vacant. That meant we only had two to deal with, if the big, bald black guy tailing us was also part of this.

"We gonna make a stand?" Zeke asked out of the corner of his mouth. Trish said nothing, but her hands were curled in tight fists and her eyes darted restlessly.

I shook my head slightly. "We get to the corner and make a run for it."

Zeke grunted his assent. "Gotta shake 'em though."

Nearing the corner of the block, the adrenaline had my sensitivity to electricity tingling. I could feel every flicker of electricity, mostly car batteries but also Trish and Zeke at my side and a few more people around the corner. Maybe a small group.

A group of people around the corner? The streets were deserted, noon or not. The only people we'd see so far were –

As Zeke advanced to clear the building on the right, it clicked. "Reapers!" I shouted, leaping for him and pushing Trish back.

As I dove, I saw a knot of four or five Reapers huddled behind a blast shield mounted on a pair of heavy legs. The nose of a machine gun projected from the center of the shield, trained on the side street.

It was a gun turret. They were assembling a turret on the sidewalk in the middle of Empire City in broad daylight. The world truly had gone to the worst of the dogs.

I crashed into Zeke and tucked into a roll. Bouncing to my feet, I charged up my hands. The Reapers were at least as startled as we were, dropping wrenches and metal parts as they scattered.

Trish ran over to Zeke, helping him to his feet. Trust her to break cover when a man was down. They looked at me and jerked my head across the road.

"Go!"

We did the safest thing we could: we ran. Zeke fired a few warning bolts at our tail to discourage further pursuit, not taking the time to aim carefully. If he had started anything, Trish might have gotten caught in the crossfire.

I hung back half a block behind Trish and Zeke as we ran, but none of the Reapers took the effort to pursue. When we got to Zeke's building, he insisted we circle twice to make sure no one was watching the building. The immediate area was clear.

As we climbed the fire escape, I contemplated my next move. It wouldn't do to have Reapers hanging out around Zeke's place. I could avoid trouble by moving across the rooftops but it wouldn't be safe for Z to come and go. Or Trish, not that she did much coming and going; between our discussion-turned-argument and all the time she'd been putting in at the hospital, she didn't seem likely to come visit often.

Zeke would probably want to back me up, so I'd need to distract him. Then it would be time to release my pent-up energy on some Reapers.


	20. 20 Trish

**20. Trish**

"I'm going to deal with them." Cole said.

"What? Shouldn't we call the police?" I asked, still out of breath from running several blocks and then climbing eight storeys of fire escape ladder.

Zeke snorted air through his nose in a harsh burst. "What police? Where were they when you were driving over the other day?"

"What?" Cole turned on me, "Trish, what happened?"

"I ran into a Reaper. Look, it doesn't matter – "

"The Reapers came to the hospital?"

"No. Literally, I _ran into_ a Reaper. With my car." I waved Cole's questions aside. "Look, I'm fine. And don't you give me that 'what police?' line, Zeke. They're out there. I treated two with gunshot wounds just yesterday."

"My point exactly," Zeke persisted. "The cops won't last much longer. They're outmanned. Did you see that turret the Reapers had? You think Empire police can go up against a trap like that?"

"The police have the authority and the training. He can't just become some vigilante."

Cole shook his head. "No. I'm faster and stronger than any of them. I know this city like the back of my hand – "

" – Cole – " I tried to interrupt as I realized he was talking about taking on more than just the small group we'd run into. Anger flared in my heart. I couldn't lose him too.

" – and I know the rooftops and bridges. The hidden places. Besides, I'm packing firepower."

"You don't have a gun license."

"Don't need one."

"How does this make you any better than one of the thugs? Where did you get a gun, anyway? Zeke, did you give him a gun?"

"Nope. Trish, you might want to sit down a second. I think Cole has something else to show you."

Cole stood up and moved to the opposite end of the roof, looking from the street below to me. He was antsy to get moving, but my glare had him trapped.

Zeke rummaged through the trash barrel. "Will this work?" he asked Cole, holding up an empty soda can.

Cole shrugged.

Zeke crushed the can under his heel and then, stooping to pick it up, he waggled his eyebrows at me over his shoulder. "Watch this."

Winding his arm back, Zeke pitched the crumpled can in a high arc. Cole brought up his hand. Lightning leaped out in small bursts, each flying through the air. He hit the can three times, knocking it up and back before switching to his left hand. Firing again, this last blast was larger, hitting the charred metal ball and exploding in a flash of sparks. The show took fewer than five seconds.

I'd heard rumors of an "Electric Man" roaming the streets of the Neon District. In my heart, I had known it was Cole, but I didn't believe he'd become a one-man army until I saw it with my own eyes. Guess I've got a stubborn streak.

"That's how you're planning on dealing with the Reapers? You're going to shoot them with electricity?"

Cole didn't meet my eyes. After a minute of brooding, he took a deep breath and began. "You claim the cops have not completely abandoned us, but the government clearly has. They've sealed up the city tighter than a drum and left us to our own devices. People here need help. They need medical attention. You're trying to save those dying in the streets from a lack of even the most basic medical care. But you saw that turret – it's not safe for doctors to go help them unless somebody deals with the Reapers first. It's going to start with me."

"You're going to get yourself killed." How could he be so selfish by being so selfless?

"Maybe... and maybe not. I've got to try. Just like you can't stop saving people in the street even when it's dangerous."

"I'm not making myself a target!"

"Really? I'm not so sure the red cross on your truck can stop bullets."

He was being a manipulative bastard, talking about my work. "Stop making this about me, Cole. You're changing the subject."

"Trish, when you help someone, when you save a life, does it feel good? Even if it was risky?"

"Of course, but that's not why I do it." I snapped.

"Then we've reached an agreement. Someone has to do this and I'm the only one who can." He turned. "Zeke, take care of her."

"You got it."

I watched Cole walk off the edge of the roof, encircled by lightning. Staring at the space where he'd been, I found myself crying.


	21. 21 Cole

**21. Cole**

Several days of draining cars and shooting soda cans had left my powers more refined. I could drain from farther away and had tighter control. But I was bored, antsy. Zeke never grew tired of watching me juggle voltage, but the light shows weren't doing anything to help anyone. I'd dealt with the group with the spike strip by picking them off one by one from the relative safety of the rooftops but there was always more where that trash came from. The thought of Trish being followed in the streets made me restless.

So I'd taken to running patrols in what Zeke was beginning to call "Our Quarter" of the Neon District. Mostly I'd zap a few Reapers from a distance or scatter small groups of them by landing in a showy fashion. Whenever I took down a Reaper or a thug from one of the other, dwindling gangs, I remembered the old war veteran dying in the alley. He'd had such a bleak smile. I didn't like looking for trouble but it felt good to have vengeance. I wonder if I wear his bleak smile now.

This morning had been dull. With no Reapers in the immediate area, I was sweeping in wider and wider circles around Zeke's place. I had reached the business district, where the run-down apartments and warehouses gave way to banks and skyscrapers. A faint shimmer along a rooftop caught my eye. I crouched, wary of snipers.

Just visible over the lip of the skyscraper's high roof was a flagpole without a flag. Something was glowing at the top. The city hadn't had electric power for so long that the small glimmer of light stood out, strange and different.

I walked along a cable strung between the buildings like a tightrope, moving to investigate the sparkle. The streets below were quiet for weekday afternoon. I might have been busting heads, but there were still thugs running rampant and scaring the common folk.

The shimmer atop the flagpole was harder to see from below, but it remained, a shifting blue-purple. Surely the Reapers couldn't have orchestrated a trap? It would be more their style to use humans as bait, not shiny things.

I scaled up the side of the skyscraper, grip strong despite a crosswind. My muscles were smooth and didn't tire. I reached the top floor, pulling myself onto the roof with a grunt. Gravel crunched beneath my feet as I moved to the base of the flagpole. I craned my neck. There was a jagged shape embedded in the lightning rod at the top of the pole. It was just a twist of scrap metal, somehow electrified. The glow of the shard winked in and out slowly.

"Huh," I grunted. It would be a simple matter to climb up to it, but I didn't like the idea of getting caught with a nasty surprise at the top of a flagpole, nearly invulnerable to falling damage or not. I emptied my hands of their lingering electricity so I could search outward for a charge. I narrowed my eyes, inhaling as I pulled in all directions.

The shard flashed brighter and echoed my pull. It was a source of electricity far stronger than any of the batteries I'd drained. The echo chaotic, more lively than the electricity I had drawn from the hospital equipment. It felt strong.

Hand over hand, I scrambled up the flagpole to snatch the glowing scrap. When my fingers closed on the metal, a strong electric surge flowed into my hand. An oddly comforting rush of energy flowed through me, pushing against the limits of my body as I tried to contain it. My muscles spasmed in waves and I slid down the flagpole.

By the time I'd landed, it was over. For a second, I worried that the shard had somehow taken my powers, leaving me to a long hike back to Zeke's place. But I summoned a handful of sparks with a thought, as cooperative as electricity would ever be. There had been no pain. In fact, if anything my reserves felt more fluid, somehow expanded.

The metal had been strangely cold at first, but now it was warm and no longer glowed. I tried sending out a pulse toward it to see if I could draw more, but there was no electric echo. It was dead, just another inert shard.

"Huh," I said again. I dialed Zeke.

"Zeke, something weird just happened."

"Hey, man. Glad you called: there's some people protesting at the Army recruitment office over on Ninth Avenue, saying they want real news about what's going on. This might be your chance to play hero. I'm heading over there myself."

"You think the Reapers are going to crash the party?"

"Sure do."

"Fair enough. I'm heading over to Ninth now. Can you think of any place where I'll have a good vantage point? Somewhere high?"

"Aren't you the expert?"

"I don't know where the Army recruiting office is, Z. Unlike you, I don't stake out government buildings watching for conspirators. Is it near the Fox Commerce Building?"

"The 'Weasel Cheating Building' as I like to call it?"

"Whatever."

"It's just a block north of there. Head up to the east wing of the Weasel Cheating Building. There's a balcony, with cover."

"How do you know?"

"Satellite photo."

"How did you get your hands on satellite photos of the Neon?"

"Welcome to the twenty-first century, Cole. You're a little late, but I'm sure you'll catch on just fine. We have these things called cell phones that come with GPS and the satellite maps. I can even see my apartment! Or... where my apartment was, before... You know."

"Where is the cover, Z?"

"You're already there?"

"Yea."

"Damn man, you don't waste any time. Just south of that big, square-ular thing."

"The what?"

"Maybe an A/C unit? I can't tell from the angle of this image. The big blue box."

"What the hell is 'square-ular'?"

"Square-looking. Like rectangular, only... square."

I dropped down onto a catwalk and walked over to a large air-conditioning unit, blue paint long faded. "Some eye in the sky you are. Just tell me when you get here."

Zeke hadn't led me astray. Twenty storeys below I saw a crowd of perhaps forty people, holding signs and circling in the street in front of a low building with an Army-green awning. Given the height of the balcony, it was too windy to make out the words of their chanting, but I suspected it was something along the lines of "F- you, Army Guys." My heart cheered them on. My girlfriend and best friend lived in fear because the military was holding the whole city captive. I was spending my days and nights fighting the gangs that should have been the government's job to handle.

Apart from the occasional car, the streets were clear in all directions. Nobody was answering the door at the recruiting office. I settled back into a crouch and waited. The protesters would probably get hungry and go home after a few hours.

Forty-five minutes later I noticed a battered white pick-up arrive in an alleyway. Zeke called as it came to a lurching halt.

"Had to take some side roads," he apologized, "Abandoned cars on Main made me think of an ambush."

"An ambush? Any Reapers?"

"No, no. Didn't see anybody. How's the view?"

"Boring. This a great lookout spot but all I'm watching are people walking in circles and waving signs."

"Don't knock it – protesting is how we mere humans get ourselves noticed and make change. Can't stick it to the man with lightning like some people."

I bit my lip. "Look, I'm coming down."

"Oh, man, I love this part. Wait just a second, lemme get my binoculars. Okay, go!"

I dropped from the balcony, wrapping myself in loose sheet of electricity. It was a long drop and the sound of the wind whistling in my ears was comforting. Zeke had meant "mere humans" as a joke, but it still hurt to hear him say it.

I directed my fall to an alley, as out of sight as human meteor could be. As I fell faster, static charge built up, energizing me. Landing in a tucked roll, I sprang to my feet, shut off my glowing hands, and jogged from the alley onto Ninth Avenue.

Zeke met me halfway, laughing. "Damn, man, but that was cool."

I grinned. "I know; I was there."

"Still, you should see yourself." We turned and surveyed the protesters. Mostly it was college-age kids, but there were some older folks, even a few families. I saw a dad pushing an infant in a stroller, two small children walking behind. A pregnant woman with an angry face and a strident voice was leading chants of "Let us out!" The windows of the recruiting office were dark and empty, like dead eyes.

"They're not getting much accomplished, are they?"

Zeke shrugged. "It lets them vent frustration. And look at that – the Voice of Survival guy! He's got a camera and everything. I be he's broadcasting live. People on the outside will be seeing this."

Zeke was grinning, but I wasn't so sure.

Zeke slipped his blunt pointer fingers in his mouth and whistled enthusiastically, grinning when the camera panned our way. He gave two ham-fisted thumbs up before elbowing me in the ribs. I waved weakly.

After twenty minutes of interviewing the protesters, the Voice of Survival and his one-man camera crew left, claiming they had to sort the footage before airing it. They encouraged us to keep an eye our TVs as well as our rights. C_lichéd, but _Zeke and the protestors ate it up. People need something to hope for, someone to believe in. If Zeke and the others felt less crappy about the situation they were living because they thought they were being heard, I wasn't about to take that hope away from them.

After the Voice Van (yes, it was really called that - spray painted on the side of an old plumber's van) drove off, Zeke turned to me.

"When you called, you said something weird had happened. Anything that tops being an walking power outlet?"

I explained about the electric shard I'd encountered and absorbed.

"That's pretty cool. I wonder if that metal bit had anything to do with the blast?"

"Now that you mention it, there was something familiar to the feel..."

"Holy shit!" Zeke yelled, reaching for his pistol. "Get down!"

Gunfire rang out, echoing off the storefronts. The protesters screamed and scattered. I crouched, charge surging into my hands.

"Cole!" Zeke yelled, shoving me to the left before taking cover behind a parked car, "Move now!" He was looking up the street. Three Reapers had appeared on the street corner, all wielding shotguns. They advanced, laughing and bouncing on their feet.

Zeke's gun fired in quick bursts of two as I scurried to his side. The Reapers turned toward us. With a decisive hand gesture, the Reaper in point position motioned for the man on the left to continue firing at the civilians. The Reaper on the right and the point man jogged straight for our hiding place. Zeke was reloading and they must have guessed I was unarmed.

"Guess again," I snarled, stepping out from behind the car. Alternating hands in a pumping motion, I shot a flurry of electric bolts at the point man. I'd sacrificed precise aim for quantity, but it was a good bet. The Reaper jerked like a poorly-coordinated puppet as a dozen darts of lightning impacted his chest and shoulders. He collapsed on the spot.

The second-in-command avoided the lightning leaping off his leader's body by darting sideways. He brought his shotgun to bear, raising the stock to his shoulder. I pivoted at the waist, stream of electric bolts carving a swath through the air.

Zeke had resumed firing somewhere to my right. The terse _rat-a-tat _of his six-shooter was pitiful in comparison to the boom of the third Reaper's shotgun.

The windshield of the parked car beside me exploded inward, glass shards sparkling. I hit the shotgunman in time to throw off his aim, but he was still standing, knees bent. Protestors screamed as they fled or else whimpered and cowered in corners.

I snarled and charged the Reaper. He shifted his weight, jerking muscles struggling to swing the gun's muzzle in my direction. Too slow. I stepped inside his guard. My hands ached with power. I grabbed the shotgun's barrel before he could club me with it, reaching my free hand to slap his chest with a hundred-kilowatt "hello."

Sparks flickered down the barrel and the shotgun exploded in my hand, knocking us both off our feet. The Reaper slammed into a parked car and slumped to the ground. I landed on a pile of soft cloth, hand stinging. I cursed under my breath. Curling my fingers into a fist was excruciating.

The pile grunted. I had landed on the point Reaper - I thought it smelled funny. Guess it wasn't my own burnt flesh.

As my red and squishy footstool groped for his gun, I shifted my weight to my knee, pinning his sternum. Then I fried him with my good hand. The sooner this fight was over, the better.

I stood with my back to the downed Reapers, gaze sweeping the street. The few remaining protesters cowered in a doorway. I didn't bother making eye contact. I wiped my uninjured hand on my thigh and met Zeke halfway to the sidewalk.

"Z, where's the third guy?"

"Down for the count." He spun the cylinder on his six-shooter before reloading. "I see you handled these two."

"Those Reapers followed you?"

"Hell if I know. They're here now. Better check and see if we're in for any more surprises." He nodded to the roof.

After pulling some juice from a car battery, my hand loosened up. I climbed to the top of the recruiting center. Parked behind Zeke's truck on the side street was one Jeep, painted black with a red skull on the side. It was empty. There were no more Reapers or similar vehicles in sight. Miraculously, it looked as if only one civilian had been shot. Zeke's warning shout had saved the day for most of the protesters.

I jumped to the sidewalk and jogged toward the sole victim. Zeke was already kneeling at the woman's side, clamping his hand to her shoulder. Blood had seeped out into a small pool.

My shadow fell across them both. "We're clear for right now," I said.

He nodded. I glanced up and down the block again, especially the rooftops. My hands flared and twitched. The woman's lips trembled. Her breathing was reedy.

"How's she doing?"

"She's unconscious but the pellets missed her heart." He frowned. "Probably. Think it's safe to move her?"

"Let's not stick around here any longer than we have to. I'll get her to your truck. You radio ahead to the hospital. "

I crouched down next to Zeke, careful to pull the energy in my hands back into my body. As I leaned over the woman, my head reeled. Vertigo blurred my vision and I had the sense of being in two places at once. I fell backward and shook my head. I heard a faint voice, chanting names. It was the woman. Her lips were moving, forming voiceless names. I closed my eyes to fight the nausea and saw faint ghosts of faces, one for each name. They were only kids, as the woman remembered them. Matilda wore her hair in pigtails. Holly had cute dimples. Joey, beautiful Joey, he never cried.

I cursed, standing. My hands were sparking again. "You have to carry her."

Zeke looked up at me from his crouch, eying my hands. "Maybe... maybe you could give her some of that energy you have. Heal her like you heal yourself."

"You want me to electrocute a gunshot victim?"

"Alternative medicine, electroshock therapy, all that..."

"Look, Z: I might heal her. Or I might send her into an epileptic fit. I might give her amnesia. Or I might fry every nerve and muscle in her body until she's a vegetable. None of that sounds like a way to help. Electricity is electricity. It's my body that's different about handling it. You need to get her to a hospital, now."

"And what about you?"

I rolled up my sleeves, pushing the dying woman's thoughts from my head. "I'm going to deal with this mess."


	22. 22 Trish

**22. Trish**

"Dr. Dailey, can I speak with you in my office, please?" Dr. Smith was the hospital director, one of the old vanguard. He insisted on doing things by the book. His tone was kind but his voice lacked its typical warmth. Something was wrong. I replaced the chart I'd been reviewing, thanked Sam, and followed Dr. Smith into his office. He closed the door behind me and motioned to a chair before sitting behind his desk. The room was sparse and neat.

"Trish," he began with a more familiar name for me but he was still cold, reserved. "We need to talk."

I nodded. My mind was busy composing a series of lies about Cole's equipment-destroying incident in room 215 and his subsequent escape.

"Since you arrived here five years ago, you have always been a dedicated member of the hospital staff. Firstly, I want you to know we appreciated your service." His words were deliberate, as was his choice of the past tense.

I stiffened. "Thank you, sir."

"Lately, however, I've become concerned. You seem stressed, overworked. Everyone has been putting extra hours in, but frankly you're obsessed. I need to hear this from your own lips: are you feeling okay?"

"I... I'm doing what I can." My voice was small.

"You seem to be doing more than just that. The boys in the research lab tell me you've been bringing them blood samples to have analyzed."

"To check for the plague-like illness we've been tracking."

"I know that, Trish. The question is: where did you get the blood samples?"

Mentally, I cursed myself. I knew exactly where this was going.

"From patients."

"Patients who've signed the proper medical waivers? I see from your expression that they have not. Trish, apart from being illegal and highly unethical, this is a serious breach of policy."

"They're delirious! The patients aren't in their right minds to sign the waivers."

"So you carried on, regardless?"

"I learned more from those blood samples than anything the patients themselves could have told me."

"Empire City is in the midst of chaos and the spreading disease is a major motivator. If hospitals are to take the lead in restoring order, proper quarantine procedure must be followed. You know that we have people working on this. What do you think Yoshi and Belinda are doing down in research, anyway?"

"I've talked with them; they keep insisting it's respiratory."

"So now you want me to give you permission to perform a spinal tap on a Miss... Cleveland, was it?"

"Mrs. Lucy Cleveland, yes," I nodded. "Room 113. Meryl's patient."

"Well, I'm very sorry to say this, but I am denying that request."

"Her next of kin have already agreed!"

He shook his head, standing. "Trish –"

"This is not caused by an airborne pathogen and you know it! Coughing and congestion don't guarantee airborne vectors. Blood was the first logical step but a sample of cerebrospinal fluid will tell us more, given that the disease severely impairs brain function."

He moved around the desk and clasped my forearm. "Trish, stop to think for a moment, please. My first priority is to contain whatever disease this is. My second priority is to the patients of this hospital. Your reckless actions have endangered both of those goals."

I jerked my arm from his loose grasp and stood. I respected Dr. Smith. Hearing him claim that my actions were betraying the trust of the patients was an emotional blow. "I... I wasn't thinking clearly. I shouldn't have ignored proper protocol."

He nodded. The wrinkles on his face seemed deeper, his eyes darker and more troubled. "Your instincts are good, Trish, but you've been under a lot of stress."

"I'll... I'll just be going back to my rounds now, then." I said, turning to the door.

He moved to block me, placing his hand on my shoulder and squeezing gently. If he hadn't been my boss, he could have been my grandfather. "No."

"What?"

"You won't be seeing to your patients today. I'm am putting you down for a leave of absence."

"What?"

"Trish, you need a break."

"There are people dying out there!"

"And bad judgment calls won't do anything to help them! You're usually a damn fine doctor, but right now all I see is someone frayed and mourning. Go home, Trish. Get some rest in a real bed. I'll call you in a couple of days to see how you're doing."

"Suspension?"

He nodded. "From all duties. Just temporary."

I bit my lip. Fierce arguments sprang to mind but I corked all the steam of my anger, knowing that another outburst would seal my fate. Only by showing that I remained level-headed could I hope to convince him to change his mind.

"We're understaffed." It was a pitiful attempt.

"The hospital needs you, yes. But we need you mentally alert, sharp, and on your toes. The first rule is do no harm. Go home and sort through your distractions. Find me the old Trish again. Do we have an understanding?" He was not going to be dissuaded.

I nodded weakly and rocked back on my heels, mind reeling.

"Understood. I'll just go get my things."

As I reached for the door, Dr. Smith said very kindly, "I'm sorry to hear of your loss, by the way." I cringed to be reminded of Amy, but held the tears back until I had shut the door. It would not do for him to see me cry.

I pulled myself together on the drive over to Zeke's rooftop. The sky was the gray of steel and rain fell in tiny drops. With each splatter on the new windshield, I felt my resolve hardening. Dr. Smith was right that I was stressed, but he'd been wrong about the disease. I was sure of it. Nothing pointed to airborne communication. I just needed the evidence to prove it.

There were more corpses on either side of the street but I knew the bodies wouldn't tell me much. I slammed my fist against the steering wheel, cursing under my breath. The sick and the dying needed doctors, and I needed more information on the plague. The only solution was to keep working.

I pulled out my cell phone, leaning forward to peer through the streaky windshield. I'd locked the car doors as soon as I got in the vehicle, but the memory of a crazed man firing a gun at me, the sound of his body colliding with the bumper, still haunted me.

I dialed the number of an old friend.

"Sean here," came a crisp voice halfway through the second ring.

I jumped to hear him pick up so soon. "Uh... Hi, Sean. It's Trish."

"Trish? Wow! You're the last person I might have expected. It's good to hear from you," he paused, "Though I guess you're still in Empire, huh?"

I nodded to myself. All cell phone connections to outside the city had been cut by government order. "Yea."

"Bummer. You making it okay?"

"My apartment's gone. Buried somewhere under Ground Zero."

"Ouch. I'd offer you my place, but the same thing happened to my cousin. I've got him, his wife, and all six of their kids crashing my pad."

"I imagine that place is quite a wreck right about now?" Sean was a surfer-turned-doctor hailing from California. His apartment was so full of knick-knacks I couldn't imagine where eight more people would sleep.

"You have no idea. Everywhere you try to step there's luggage and clothes and napping kids!" We both chuckled. I tried to imagine living a home so full of life. He exhaled, "Wow, it feels good to laugh. Not much of that going around these days."

"Sean, I had a question for you."

"Figured this wasn't just a friendly call out of the blue."

"Are you still working at the west side clinic?"

"Every day. Turns out, if there's a big explosion, a mysterious disease, mass panic, and a government lock-down all in one week, we doctors hit the jackpot. I never imagined the place so busy."

"You guys could use a hand out there, huh?"

"Lady, if you have thirty seconds to spare, I can give you an hour's worth of patients to mind. You sure you're feeling up to it, having lost your place and all?"

"I need to do something to help."

"Yea, I know the feeling. You're a good kid, Trish, you know that?"

"Thanks, Sean. I'll see you tomorrow at the clinic."

"Good deal."

I hung up the phone, feeling more confident. Being busy would keep my mind off having been suspended from hospital duties, off thoughts of Amy.

After circling the block and peering into every corner to make sure no nasty, hooded surprises were waiting, I parked in front of Zeke's truck. I sat and waited for the rain to stop before heading for the fire escape. Someone had thoughtfully placed a stepstool under the ladder, putting the bottom rung within easy reach. I sighed, composing my face and my thoughts, and began to climb.

As I reached the top of the roof, I began to hear a harmonica. The rhythm was too disjointed to call it music, but the notes were about right for "House of the Rising Sun." Peering upward, I saw Zeke sitting at the edge of the roof.

"Zeke?" I called.

He pulled the harmonica from his mouth and peered down at me. "Well look who we have here. Welcome, stranger!" He reached down to help pull me onto the roof.

"You play harmonica?"

"Learning to."

"Why?" It seemed like more effort than he'd normally expend. Shouldn't we all be focused on survival, with so many dying every day?

"There's nothing on the boob tube but government propaganda. Who wants to listen to big wigs patting themselves on the back for nothing while ignoring Empire City? Except for the Voice of Survival guy, television's boring these days. So I figure, what's a Zeke to do without his TV and booze?"

"Learn harmonica?"

He nodded. "Learn harmonica."

I paused a moment to wonder how Zeke was powering his television set. Then I noticed Cole sleeping on the couch behind him, sparks falling from his twitching hands.

Zeke noticed me staring. "Here, let's wake him up. I keep telling him he's gonna start a fire like that." It was an attempt at a joke.

"Let him sleep."

"And miss you? He'd kill me if he found out you were here and I didn't wake him up. Why are you here now, anyhow? Hospital duties slowing down?"

I shook my head. "That'll be the day. No, I... I needed a break."

"And you deserve one." He moved behind the couch. "Uh, you might want to come back here. Or just stand behind that bit of fencing over there."

It took me a moment to realize what he meant. "Cole would never hurt anyone," I protested, but the words died on my lips. Zeke's usually carefree face was stern.

I couldn't see his eyes behind his sunglasses. "Of course he wouldn't. This is just to be safe. 'Never startle a sleepwalker or a slumbering human taser,' as the saying goes. "

I was already more than ten feet away from the couch, but I stepped behind the fencing, telling myself it was only to reassure Zeke.

"Cole," he said lightly. "Cole, I got a surprise for you."

Cole rolled over. His hands were dim again.

Zeke backed up several steps. "Cole!" He called a little more loudly.

Cole bolted upright, lightning crackling to life along his arms. His eyes were wide as he swung his head from side to side. He'd pulled his feet underneath himself in a protective crouch before his gaze fell on me.

Zeke held his hands up, palms facing outward in a cautioning gesture. "Woah. Take it easy there, big fella."

"Trish?" The lightning in his hands winked out as if it had never been there. The smell remained.

I waved.

He hopped down from the couch and walked over, reaching me in three long strides. He stared at me through the fence. I stepped around it slowly.

"Hi, Cole."

"You're not at the hospital?" Suspicion colored his voice.

"I'm taking a break. Starbucks was closed, so I decided to come here." It was a weak joke, but his shoulders relaxed.

"Also," I clarified "it was Zeke's idea to wake you up, not mine."

"Oh, no. Don't you drag me into this," Zeke called. He was digging around in a box against the far wall.

"Need a hand, Z?" I offered.

"No," he grunted, "I got this. You two lovebirds just have a seat over there."

A card table had appeared in the middle of the camp chairs. The rooftop was really starting to feel like home. I sat down. Cole sat across from me, silent.

Zeke walked over, clasping a 2-liter soda and bag of plastic cups in one hand and several packages of Twizzlers in the other. He was grinning like a man who'd just won the lottery.

"Dinner," he announced, "is served."

"Twizzlers," Cole said in a dead voice, "are not food."

"Sure they are, man. Right there in the red food group, alongside apples, fruit punch, and, uh, Red Bull."

"I'll eat anything at this point." I said, reaching to pour a soda.

We ate in silence, unable to make even token compliments to the chef. The soda was warm and flat and the candy wasn't very filling, but the sugar did cut the edge of my hunger.

The sun was setting. "Trish, you want me to drive you back?" Zeke asked.

"I was thinking of spending the night here, actually. With so many patients coming in, they needed to use the office as a makeshift room." It was so easy to lie. "They even took my cot. I have nowhere else to go. I don't have any family in Empire, now that Amy's gone." Cole was staring into his cup of soda, still half full. Zeke glanced at him and then looked to me.

"Well, if you can't sleep at the hospital now, I know a guy who knows of a couple of places that have been, uh... recently vacated."

"What do you mean? Like an apartment?" I hated to admit that the appeal of a real bed was stronger than the repulsion of borrowing someone's apartment.

Cole nodded. "I think it's a good idea. Living somewhere else, you'll be safer... if anybody decides to come for me."

Since when had he been thinking like that? I stared at Cole for a long moment, slowly realizing that he was right. If he was serious about taking on the Reapers by himself, he'd soon be making powerful enemies.

Finally he met my eyes. "I need you safe, Trish."

"And who's keeping you safe?"

"That'd be me," Zeke said, patting Cole on the shoulder. "Somebody's got keep the Electric Man in line." The corner of Cole's mouth pulled up in the slightest of smiles.

I didn't know whether I wanted to thank Zeke for being such a good friend or to punch him in the gut for encouraging Cole with crazy ideas. Either way, Cole needed a friend like Z. Hell, I could have used a friend like Z.

I nodded. "Alright. I've already got my stuff from the hospital, so just tell me where to go. But... you boys be careful, alright?"

Cole looked away, to the storm on the horizon. He had other plans, plans that could never be considered careful. I turned and left before I could think on them much longer.


	23. 23 Cole

**23. Cole**

I landed on Zeke's rooftop after another long night of patrolling the Neon, venting my frustration by picking off small camps of Reapers. It was a few hours after dawn and Zeke was already gone, probably bartering some of the batteries I'd charged. I stretched out on the couch. Sleep was fleeting, punctuated by terrible images. My memory still had a gap from right before the explosion, but when I dreamed I could recall the blast itself from hundreds of different points of view, nightmares through the eyes of the dead.

After a few fitful hours, I heard Bessie, Zeke's ancient pickup truck, rattling to a stop in the alley below. A moment later, "Hey, Cole! You up there?"

"Yea?" I called, stretching as I walked to the fire escape.

"Get down here, will ya?"

I leapt over the edge, curling a protective sheet of energy around me as I fell. It helped me clear my mind, convince myself it was all bad dreams. Using a tiny push from my hands to alter course, the landing was perfect. The whoosh of the wind and then the slam of impact on the asphalt were like a musical crescendo. Damn, that never got old. Neither did seeing Zeke's reaction. His truck was rocking, creaking slightly.

"What's up, Z?"

He was leaning out of the driver's side window. "I remembered what you said the other day, about that bit of metal that juiced you up. Straight outta a comic book, you going around picking up power-ups. Then I figured, I could be your tech wizard. You know, the one who invents all the cool stuff. Take a look at this." He reached over, rummaging under the dashboard. "It's kinda bulky, one sec."

I took my time walking over. The bed of the truck was completely full of scrap metal. Underneath a piece of tin roofing, I saw a familiar glow. I reflexively sent out a probe of energy and felt an echo of power. I wanted it.

Zeke finished digging around in the passenger seat, bringing out a small satellite dish, frayed wires dangling. He climbed out of the truck.

"You said you when noticed the other charge shards, you were sending out a signal?"

I nodded.

"I thought maybe we could increase the range if we boosted the signal."

I eyed the satellite dish skeptically.

"It's a parabolic dish. Should help you send and receive farther. Only... let's take a step back from Bessie, shall we? No offense, man, but you're leaking again."

Just the thought of getting my hands on that irradiated shard made my arms flare up. Dimming them quickly, I coughed, stepping back. "Sorry. Hadn't noticed."

He nodded. "It's cool. Here, I'll try holding the dish to your head..."

He stood beside me, positioning the curved metal between my face and the truck. I couldn't see a thing.

"Ping it again," he prompted.

"What? 'Ping'?"

"Yea, like radar. You send out a signal and get a bounce back. You 'ping the radar'."

"You've been watching too many war movies with submarines. Look, I'm not using that thing." I pushed the dish aside. "I don't even sense it with my head. It's my skin, my whole body. This is dumb."

His shoulders sagged. Before I could apologize, he tossed the dish into a nearby dumpster. "Whatever, man, just do it. Maybe I got something for you in the truck."

"Right."

Zeke had the right idea by calling it a ping. Whenever I felt drained, in need of a bit of juice, I'd sort of pull, finding a battery to draw electricity from by letting the charge flow downhill into to me. But to get it to conduct, I first had to send out a little feeler of charge. I'd found the quickest way to do so was in the shape of an expanding sphere. I did so now. I could feel, more than see, the expanding wave move outward from my body, especially along the ground.

The front passed through Zeke and he shivered. "Gives me goosepimples when you do that."

When the ping hit the twisted metal in the truck bed, the purple-blue glow of the one actual piece I was looking for flared more brightly for an instant.

Zeke reached to dig it out. "Woah, didya see that? That piece right there went all sparkly."

As he lifted the roofing, I snatched the metal shard from under his hand. "Don't touch it!" Like the previous piece, it flared in my hands and then when entirely dead.

"Why not? I picked it up an hour ago."

"It could be dangerous, now that I've pinged it."

"You're fine. You're better than fine, you said it gives you an extra kick."

Which, of course, it had. When I first touched the shard, the metal had been abnormally cool for having been sitting in the bed of a pickup in the summer sun. My touch drained the stored energy into my body and now the scrap smoldered slightly.

"Hey, you reckon it could give anybody powers? Even me?" Zeke's voice was eager at the idea.

I frowned. "These things could be anywhere, Z. If they give people powers, I need to round them up quickly."

"You want to be stronger."

I shook my head. "That's not the point. Can you imagine if the Reapers got a cartload of these things? Last thing we need is super-powered Reapers. Will you help me?"

"I just tried. Apparently, the rest of this is junk. It took me all day and half a tank of gas to get all of it gathered up, just for one piece."

I frowned. I'd been wondering about that. "You can't see them?"

"See what?"

"The glow... the aura around them. It's blue. Or purple. I dunno, it changes."

"I saw it flash when you pinged it, but..."

I sighed with relief. "This is great. It means nobody else will even know to go for them."

Zeke narrowed his eyes at me for a second and then turned back toward the open driver's side door. "Yea. You're right, of course. You go and get as many as you can, Cole. I'll go see if I can barter any of this... junk."

"Hey, man, thanks for trying."

"Just doing what I can. Damn little as it is." He shut the door firmly. I stood back as he coaxed Bessie to life, driving her off without looking back.


	24. 24 Cole

**24. Cole**

"You getting enough shut-eye?"

"No," I admitted.

Zeke gestured. "Couch is all yours..."

"Thanks, but I don't need it." Sleeping wasn't easy. I would close my eyes and after a few minutes I'd begin to see things that weren't there. Ghost images. Trish once explained to me that dreams cause little electrical storms in the brain that doctors monitor with EEGs.

Sometimes, before I'd even fallen asleep, I'd see ghostly images in the dark of my closed eyes. Mostly faint shapes, people coming and going, always slightly out of focus. Sometimes there were voices. Often the images were tinted with desperate fear or loneliness, rarely with hope or good humor. Constantly there was the unease of intrusion, a sense of other, private minds. Maybe I was seeing the storms in sleeping brains nearby – the shadows of other people's dreams. I was tired, but it was easier to keep my guard than to face the confusion of pale worlds and feelings seeping into my mind.

"Don't need sleep? Hell, man, everybody needs to catch a few Z's now and again." Zeke was peering at me over his sunglasses, a habit he'd picked up recently. I turned away. Reaching out, I began to draw power from a light on the roof across the alley. Electricity rushed fifteen feet through the air into my left hand. With my right, I gathered a tight ball of energy. The electricity globe pulsed brightly as it grew larger until I finally released it skyward, a melon-sized ball lightning. Again. Again. I fired volley after volley, speeding up until a steady stream of pulses lit the sky like silent, deadly fireworks. The firepower came to me reflexively. I didn't smile.

Zeke didn't smile either. I let my hands fall to my sides, still sparking.

"I could do this all day," I said.

"Your body might be able to take it, but you sure as hell can't. You need to relax, brother. Take a load off for a few hours. The world can stand to wait for a while."

"Zeke, you don't know how bad it is out there. People –"

"How bad it is _in here_, you mean? I'm trapped in Empire City, same as you. Same as everyone else. Just because I don't run along the rooftops like a damned monkey don't mean I can't see it all going to hell. Makes me wonder if the juice has fried your brains."

My hands clenched into fists, sparking violently, but I waited until my voice was deathly still. "Fried my brains?" I asked. "I walk past the corpses and I can feel them. Especially the ones that died recently. It's like having a memory of something you didn't do."

"That's weird... But hey, might be useful with the ladies!" He said, grinning.

I didn't smile. "It's like a snapshot of their minds: what they had just done, what they were about to do." I looked down at my hands, through them, remembering. "The last thing they were thinking when they died."

"I can only imagine," he murmured.

"You can't imagine it. You wouldn't believe the thoughts people have, right before they die. Sure, there's a lot of fear, some pain. But mostly, it's very, very black. Desperate. People would do anything to live just a day longer. Absolutely anything. How can people be like that?"

I looked to Zeke in genuine confusion, but I knew he didn't have the answer. How could anyone have the answer? Zeke was, at best, a distraction to get me thinking in the present.

"Look, man. Somebody's last thoughts... Don't you think that's kinda private?"

"I was trying to save lives, Zeke. If I find somebody alive, I have a chance at helping them."

He put up his hands in a defensive gesture. "Okay, okay. But maybe you can control it somehow, if you practice?"

"Maybe." He stood up. "It's difficult to practice not having nightmares."

After a moment of silence, Zeke looked up. "Hey, man, you remember what pizza tastes like?"

"Pizza? What are you –"

He only laughed. "There's that the same stupid expression again. Every time. Every single time."

I frowned. Zeke pressed on. "Pizza? Pizza pie? You know, crust, cheese, saucy sauce? Ring any bells or are you as dumb as the light socket you resemble?"

My stomach growled. Perfect.

"What I'm saying is, when was the last time you ate?"

I frowned more deeply. "I don't know... There were goons in the park, before that I took out a coupla squads on the rooftops over on Eighth Avenue and covered an ambulance out on an emergency run from the hospital... Before that, I found another air-dropped crate in a hard-to-reach place."

"Anything good?"

"In the crate? Not really. Milk formula for infants and brand name diapers. I called it in to the hospital."

"Figures," he grunted.

"Oh, yea – I split that MRE with you."

"Cole, that was yesterday morning."

"Was it?" I knit my eyebrows. "Kinda all runs together."

He held up a hand, ticking off points on the tips of his fingers. "You had half a preserved ration. More than twenty-four hours ago. You also can't remember the last time you slept for more than what, three hours at a go?"

"It started raining," I said darkly. But the sparks on my hands had died down; he was getting to me.

"You need to take a break." He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed with a few quick flicks of his right thumb, silencing my inarticulate protests by wagging the pointer finger of his left hand in my face.

"Uh-uh, buster. I am putting you on a mandatory leave of absence, for your own sanity's sake. All parties will cooperate."

Trish's voice filtered through the tinny echo of speaker phone. He was calling Trish? "Hello?"

"Hey, Trish. It's Z. You remember telling me about how you wanted some down time, maybe a weekend alone with Cole?" He grinned into my scowling face. "Well, he just volunteered. He'll see you at your place in half an hour."

"Oh. What? Really?" She seemed confused but caught on quickly enough. "Wow, that sounds great. Thanks, Zeke."

"You bet, Trish. Bye now."

"Goodbye."

He snapped the phone shut.

"I hate you sometimes," I snarled.

"No, you don't. You just needed somebody to help you realize how much you needed a break. Go on, get over to Trish's place. I'll hold down the fort. You could use a night's rest in a real bed."


	25. 25 Trish

**25. Trish**

"Out, out! Out of my kitchen!" I chided, waving a dishrag at him. Of course, it wasn't my kitchen at all, but I doubted its original owners were in any state to complain.

He dodged the snapping towel easily, hands held up in a gesture of surrender. "I was going to cook us some breakfast," he protested, backing off nonetheless.

"You, working a gas stove? You'll blow us up as soon as cook for us."

"At least it'd be edible," he growled, standing just outside the kitchen's tile flooring on the carpet of the living room. Before the blast, Cole had always done the cooking. By the time I got home from a shift at the hospital, there would be a fantastic meal waiting. His cooking involved large hunks of red meat, sure, but it was always more than edible. It was often delicious. Amy used say that she didn't know what I saw in him, but Cole was good at the small gestures that made life easier and more comfortable, like cooking. I often worried he'd get himself killed or arrested climbing a rooftop or running red lights on his bicycle, but I never had to worry about the laundry or about what to cook for dinner.

Which was good, because the only food I could confidently cook to perfection was Pop-Tarts.

"It's not my fault we no longer have a working toaster," I began, mixing the pancake batter furiously.

"Trish –"

"Or coffee pot –" Mix mix mix.

"Trish –"

"And thank God you know better than to touch the refrigerator..." We didn't have milk or eggs, but I was determined to get this as right as I could. Something normal would be nice for a change. Nothing could be more normal than pancakes for breakfast, right?

"Trish!"

"What?" I snapped, slamming down the bowl of over-mixed batter and turning to face him.

"It's burning!" And, before I could register the smell of smoke, he'd taken two long strides behind me and grabbed the frying pan off the stove, setting it in the sink. He flicked the spigot on the 50-gallon water jug, dousing the flaming pancake. No gas explosions, no rampant lightning. Just a soggy mess in the kitchen sink.

After a minute, he carefully shut off the flow of water from the makeshift tank. "Don't try to clean up until you're sure the water's clean," he said with his back to me. His shoulders were hunched over: he was looking at his hands.

My eyes widened as I saw he'd been burnt by the frying pan. The marks were red around the edges and already beginning to form dark blisters. Second degree burns, possibly partial thickness damage to the deep dermis. Complete recovery was likely with proper treatment, administered quickly.

"A cold compress –" I began, pushing him aside.

"Trish..." The way he said my name made me thinking of a drowning man reaching for a lifeboat. He grasped my wrist with a feather-light touch as I reached for the sink tap.

"This water's clean, Cole. Sean and I tested it in the lab, along with samples from the hospital reservoir. We did it right after they restored the power to this block." I moved closer with a damp washcloth.

"Trish, I can't touch a wet towel." Now that he'd finally caught my gaze in his, I couldn't look away. His eyes were somehow clear and clouded at the same time. I dropped the towel to the floor.

"But your hands –"

His voice was very small. "It's fine." He slid open a drawer and fished out one of the last clean butter knives. Taking a step back from me, he shifted the knife to his left hand and nodded at me. I bit my lip, knowing better than to protest. After I had stepped backward a pace, he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and slipped the knife into an outlet. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the knife, but there were no sparks. As he let out his breath, he opened his eyes again and looked at me. The scar under his eye made his face asymmetric and a bit sinister.

Turning his body toward me, he held out his free hand. I could see the faint outline of where the pan had burned his palm, but the redness was quickly fading. The shiny patches of blistered skin tightened as I watched, pulling back and draining of fluid. Within seconds, all traces of the burn were gone.

I reached out to touch, hesitating before my fingertips brushed his skin. I didn't want to believe my own eyes and yet I couldn't deny it, either. Cole saw the question on my face and wordlessly withdrew the knife from the wall socket. He set it on the counter gently and held out both hands for me to inspect.

They were perfectly smooth, the skin soft and a bit warmer than I expected. My hands trembled slightly, but his were steady.

"They used to be so callused."

He shrugged and slipped his hands into his pockets, leaning against the countertop. "Call it an occupational hazard. I've got my gloves."

I stared. He was completely alien to me. How could he call a lack of calluses an occupational hazard when he'd taken it upon himself to be shot at? It was barely a week ago he'd crawled up to Zeke's roof with a bullet in his ribs.

"Trish," it was barely a whisper, "Trish, are we okay?"

I just wanted a normal day. While waiting for Cole to arrive after Zeke had called the day before to arrange this whole deal, I realized just how much I'd wanted one normal day. Breakfast with my boyfriend and then maybe reading on the couch. No quarantines, no mysterious plague, and especially no electric light show. Even without seeing a single spark this morning, his powers were still there, coloring everything. He was different in a way I couldn't ignore. Mingled with the odor of burnt pancake was the scent of burnt flesh. _His_ burnt hands, now wholly healed, without a scar or mark.

This was his normal day. Ever since the blast, healing himself with electricity was normal. Getting shot at and jumping off roofs and saving the day. Charging into serious danger to protect people without flinching. It was strange and alien.

I wanted my Cole back. The restless, quiet guy who couldn't hold a nine-to-five job but cooked a delicious hamburger. Was he still there, buried underneath all the turmoil? Does that same recklessness that once drove him to scale tall buildings now drive him to rush into danger?

He now had the ability to fight for himself and for others.

And I still loved him. There, in the kitchen I was borrowing, its owners probably dead in the street, the government holding the city on lock-down, and myself newly out of a job, I realized that I did still love him. Maybe I loved him more for not changing who he was even when everything else around him was in chaos. He may have turned into something beyond human, something that all my book learning told me was not natural, not even possible, but he still wanted to cook me breakfast.

I stepped forward, seeing all his muscles tense. "I'm still me," he said, voice faint.

"Only," he clenched his smooth-skinned fists, "this is me now, too." He looked down and seemed to shrink into himself. Then, for the first time since the blast, I embraced my boyfriend. He immediately relaxed, shoulders sagging again. Once I forced myself to ignore the racing heartbeat, it was nice to lay my head on his chest.

"Cole, they laid me off." I hadn't been planning on telling him but it slipped out before I realized it.

He cocked his head, peering down at me. "What?"

"Not... not fired. Everybody who's coming in to the hospital these days is working on a volunteer basis. Apparently, I've been volunteering too much. Dr. Smith thinks I'm stressed, so he told me to take a break." It was embarrassing to admit it. I shook my head. "But it doesn't matter, people need my help and he can't stop me. If he really won't let me work at the hospital, I'll lend a hand at the west side clinic. I've already talked to the EMTs there."

He draped his hand across my shoulders, squeezing in a way that I'm sure he meant to be reassuring, but came across as distracted and angry. I noticed a bitter, acidic smell. After a moment, I realized it was coming from his skin. It set my teeth on edge. I wondered if this was what the blast had smelled like. I wondered if this smell came to a Reaper blasted off his feet by lightning unleashed from the hands of this powerful, alien man. For some reason, I wondered if this smell was the last thing Amy knew before she disintegrated, leaving no corpse to mourn over.

Holding my shoulders, he leaned back to look me in the face. His eyes scanned back and forth. "You are amazing," he said. I wasn't used to his admiration or praise. He would often compliment me, but now the statement came from a man who could swan dive off a skyscraper, a man carrying the weight of so many deaths.

If he saw the fear in my eyes, the recognition didn't register in his face as he repeated, "You are amazing: you work all day at the hospital saving people's lives and when somebody tries to get you to take a break, you're determined to sneak around working even harder. I love you, Trish." He pulled me into a hug, a real, two-armed hug this time.

Only he still smelled like ozone and his hands were too soft. He was Cole and he was not-Cole at the same time. Some part of me still loved the goodness and devotion in him but I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to forgive him his past.

After a few silent moments, I slipped out of his arms and muttered something about showering and getting dressed. He nodded. I guess he took my moving into the other room as a sign it was time to go, because he was gone by the time I returned.

He'd left a bowl of fruit salad waiting on the counter.


	26. 26 Zeke

**26. Zeke**

Cole appeared on the rooftop in the late afternoon, carrying a storm on his brow. I didn't hear him coming, so I guess he must have climbed down from one of the taller buildings next door.

When I finally noticed him standing there, I waved. He stalked over and sat on the couch. "How was Trish? Enjoying her new place?"

"I guess. It was strange to be in somebody else's kitchen. She was stressed out over losing her job so you got her to occupy a dead person's apartment?"

"Hey, now. These days, the word is 'liberate,' not 'occupy.' She's liberating that apartment of its valuable goods. Like the government's doing to all those Arab states with the oil. Wait – Trish got fired?"

"Not quite. She was given a mandatory extended leave of absence. You didn't know? Her boss said she was overworked, not thinking clearly."

"Well, at least it gave you guys time to relax a little. Bet you both appreciated having a real bed. You can thank me for that, by the way."

"Didn't sleep."

I wolf-whistled. "Nice job, man. You don't waste any time, do ya?"

"Can it, Zeke. How can you think about getting some at a time like this?"

I frowned, offended. "You're saying you're _not_ thinking about getting some?"

"Zeke, she was afraid to even touch me. What if I electrocuted her? We talked for a while, about what we'll do when the quarantine is lifted and all. Then she went to bed. I told her I'd sleep on the couch."

"She mad at you or something?"

"No... I don't think so. Just stressed. With losing Amy, her apartment, and her job, my turning into a one-man walking freak show might actually be the least of her concerns right now." He paused for a bitter smile. "You could tell she was distracted because she tried to cook."

"No shit, her? Is the building still in one piece?"

He grinned. "Yea. But she burnt the pancakes to hell."

"You saved the day, right? Swooped in there and wooed her with your Iron Chef powers?"

The grin faded. "Something like that."

"You know what, you look like you could use a beer."

That got His Royal Broody-ness's attention. "Beer?"

"Nectar of the gods." I said, pulling out a six-pack from the shade behind the couch. They were warm, but they were Coronas, so that was all right.

"Where did you get these?"

"Found them in another empty apartment. Brought 'em over while you were out."

I handed Cole a beer before he could think on the ethics too much. Popping my own bottle open, I sat down on the couch. We sipped in quietly before I was struck by an idea. "You know who you remind me of?"

Cole eyed me skeptically. "Who?"

"Bruce Willis."

"Bruce Willis?" He nursed his beer pensively. "Oh, I get it: the hair. It's always about the hair with you."

"Your hair does need a bit more style to it," I insisted, patting my own 'do. "But nah, that's not why. It's 'cuz he always plays the nobody who becomes the Big Damn Hero. He's just a regular guy and he saves the day. If they make a movie about you, Cole, they sure as hell better pick Willis."

A sudden thought dawned on me. "You could be his stuntman."

Cole groaned, spitting a gulp back into his bottle. "Well, you know who you remind me of?"

"Elvis." We both said. He grinned.

"Yep," I tipped my beer back, "It's good to be the King."

We drank in brotherly silence. I lived for afternoons like this.

After a moment, a thought came to me. "Cole, I've been thinking –"

"Uh-oh," he said.

"I've been thinking, maybe you should have a weapon. Like a club or something. Something that conducts your powers, amplifies them maybe."

Cole looked skeptical. Then, perhaps remembering how quickly he'd rejected my satellite dish idea, reconsidered. "Zeke, how am I gonna climb if I'm carrying around a baseball bat?"

"We could get you a holster."

He shook his head. "My messenger bag is annoying enough. I need to be able to move freely. That's the most important thing."

"But what if it helped you channel your stuff? Like a laser." I held up my hands, pointer fingers extended. "Pew, pew, pew."

He rolled his eyes. "Tell you what: you come up with something that's not too cumbersome and we'll talk then."

I was happy to have a project to work on. Now, for phase two. "One more thing, Cole. I'm not quite sure how to say this, but..."

"What is it?"

I nodded at his chest. "You should really change your shirt." He looked down, sighing.

"Not again. I just put this on four or five hours ago. I only circled the park twice."

I raised my eyebrows at the tears that looked suspiciously like bullet holes. "It's gonna freak Trish out if she sees you looking like that."

He sighed. "Good thing I heal quick...?"

I reached over to grab his shoulder and gave my best conspiratorial grin. "Tell you what: you know how they've been dropping crates of food and medical supplies every now and again? Well that guy on TV says that some of the crates are full of clothes. Turns out some brand name clothing company wants to use Empire City as advertising, so they dropped their own clothing from the sky. Maybe we could look into it."

It only took a quick circle around the block before I found somebody who knew somebody who had one of the crates. A bit of negotiating later and we had a small wooden crate marked "Emergency brand name clothing" in hand.

After a grunt-filled five minutes with a pry bar, I had the lid of the crate off. Cole had volunteered to blast the thing open but I wouldn't let him. "These boxes are made to withstand a fall from an airplane, not a frontal assault from a walking power plant."

We lifted the lid together. Stacks of matching shirts and pants were neatly folded, vacuumed sealed in plastic bags. Cole blinked. Every single shirt was identical.

"I hope you like track suits," I laughed.

"This is dumb; it's like I'm not changing shirts at all."

I shook my head. "Nah, it's perfect. You've got a reputation to uphold. Now you've got an image to go with that reputation. People are going to recognize you. You're gonna be an icon!"

"They won't recognize me from the electricity?"

"The won't have to. It's perfect!" I grinned.

"Zeke, sometimes I think you enjoy this a little too much."

* * *

><p>Hold on to your hats, dear readers - this was the last light-hearted chapter. Things are about to get serious!<p> 


	27. 27 Trish

**27. Trish**

My phone rang, waking me from my nightmare with its low, urgent beep.

"H'lo?"

"Hi, Trish?"

"S'me," I said, sitting up.

"Oh... Hi, Trish!" The female voice was at first hesitant, then more eager. "It's me, Meryl!" She added as an afterthought. I pictured her round face and huge mass of curly red hair.

"Can I help you, Meryl?"

"Somebody was asking after you at the hospital. Lady in a suit, all business. She said her name was Moya Jones. She seemed real interested in patients we'd taken in on the day of the blast."

It had to be someone after Cole. I swallowed nervously but tried to cover it with a small laugh. "All three hundred patients?"

Meryl's high-pitched chuckled ended with a pig-like snort. "That's what I told her. Anyway, I gave her your number. Thank god for cell phones. Can you believe the government's still got the landlines cut off?"

"Speaking of, I should probably go, Meryl. Don't want my cell battery to die before this Jones lady calls."

"Yea, you're right. I should probably be making rounds anyhow." She paused. "Hey, Trish, are you coming back to the hospital any time soon?"

I sighed. This was the real reason she'd called. Meryl was a lonely girl, always chattering away to the few people who would lend half an ear. She was a good enough nurse but I didn't think she had much in the way of family or friends. I couldn't bear to lie to her.

"I'd like to come in, Meryl, I really would. But Dr. Smith thinks I should take some time off, and you know how stubborn he is..."

"Oh."

"But, if you want, you can come visit me at the west side clinic."

"Yea?" her voice brightened.

"Sure. We could always use another set of capable hands."

"Thanks, Trish. Maybe I'll come by tomorrow after my shift. Take care."

"You too, Meryl. Say 'hi' to Sam and the lab boys for me."

"Okay... bye."

I hung up, wondering who this Moya Jones person was and why she wanted to get at Cole. But that was just paranoia. Meryl hadn't said anything about Cole or about strange electrical events – synonymous with Cole these days – or anything similar. I sighed again. I was beginning to see conspiracies everywhere. Too much time hanging out with Zeke.

Shaking my head in an attempt to clear my mind, I resolved to say nothing to Cole. He had his hands full doing whatever it was he did.


	28. 28 Cole

**28. Cole**

When the cell phone rang, I was practicing projecting waves of energy from both hands, shield-like. I picked up a tin can and tossed it into the air, shooting it three times before it dropped out of sight. The phone picked up on the second ring.

"Cole!" Trish was terrified. Her voice was pitched low and urgent, wavering. Was she crying?

"Trish?" There was a lot of background noise. Maybe I was giving off something that made the phone register static. I dimmed my hands and thought happy thoughts.

"Get to Archer Street _now_. They have the ambulance, Cole. They got Sean and Meryl. I don't know how much longer I can –" There was a crashing noise and Trish screamed.

I ran.

"Talk to me, Trish," I urged. There was another crashing sound, then the grunting of a close-quarters struggle. I leaped over an alley. Crossing the narrow roof in six strides, I sprang halfway up a ladder on the opposite building and began climbing.

"C'mon, Trish. Where are you? What's going on?" She didn't answer. I muttered a steady stream of curses. My hands were already covered in sheaths of electricity: tight, angry fists of power. Sticking to the rooftops, it should have been ten minutes before I arrived. Running at full tilt and taking several extremely reckless leaps, I arrived in five. During that time, my ear was full of metallic crashing, the sounds of squealing tires and breaking glass. The phone call never disconnected.

Archer Street begins at the park and runs for twenty blocks, but it wasn't hard to track down the ambulance. I followed the sound of gunfire, sirens, and screams. Several cars were halfway onto the sidewalk below me, windshields shattered and hoods smoking. I spotted the ambulance two blocks to the south. Its lights and sirens were on. There was a flash of red in the driver's side window before the driver reached out, firing a gun into the air from his left hand while steering erratically with his right. The ambulance swerved back and forth down the street in wide arches, tires squealing.

Each time the driver fired, I heard an echo through the cell phone. She was somewhere down there, watching all the action from up close. "Trish? Trish, tell me you're there."

There was a moan, then a scream and another crash. Then the line went dead. I cursed again.

The maniac driving the ambulance had rear-ended a parked car and was now trying to back up. I had to deal with him and then find Trish. I called more electricity to my already flaring hands and leaped off the roof. It was time to vent some frustration.


	29. 29 Trish

**29. Trish**

I heard Cole's voice, faint and tinny. Opening my eyes, my head surged with pain. I was slumped in the corner of the ambulance. A patient was still on the stretcher, tied down and wearing an oxygen mask. His eyes darted back and forth wildly. It was a moment before I realized he was screaming. We were both screaming. I tried to pull myself to my feet, swaying.

Everything flew forward as the ambulance slammed into something. Instruments clattered against the wall. I saw my cell phone sail through the air to slam into an oxygen cylinder, shattering into pieces. No way to call for help.

Meryl had ridden along in the ambulance as a volunteer but she was gone now. I told myself she'd escaped, ignoring a cloudy memory of blood and gunshots and screaming. Cole might be on his way, but for now I was on my own.

Except I wasn't. The patient was here, immobile and counting on me. I cut off my scream and forced myself to breathe, gathering my wits. I braced myself against the wall. My head ached deeply. I must have been unconscious, possibly from a concussion. Apart from minor lacerations, I was otherwise intact. The patient was a teenage male. He'd been shot in the forearm. His bandages we soaked with blood but still in place. His dark skin was pale and clammy. Shock. There were strange black streaks around his mouth.

The driver of the ambulance cackled. From the front I heard the sound of metal scraping as he swung the vehicle around. Then we accelerated again. The stretcher rolled, pinning me against the wall. The patient rolled onto his side and screamed again, more weakly. His breathing took on a bubbling quality. He was losing blood quickly. I had to get him out of the ambulance. Leaning forward, I began to undo the restraints strapping him into the stretcher.

"Stay with me," I urged as everything swayed again. Through the small window at the front of the truck, I saw the world swerve back and forth through the cracked windshield. The driver was arguing with thin air in a high-pitched, tortured voice. A Reaper? Through the haze of pain, I remembered something about a struggle in the cab. I had been locking the stretcher into place when I'd heard Sean yell, then gunshots. When the ambulance took off a high speed and Sean and Meryl didn't answer my screams, I'd tried to call the police and gotten a busy signal. A busy signal for 911? Only in Empire City.

In my panic my thoughts had turned to Cole. Calling him, I had gotten only a few words out when the floor jerked out from under me and I hit my head.

I clutched my temple, vision blurry. I could just see the driver's black-streaked hands clutching the wheel, jerking it left to right like a child pretending to steer a racecar. I had an eerie feeling, as if something was strangely familiar here. I tried to lean forward for a better look into the cab. My stomach lurched with each swerve. Then a searing white light streaked through the air half a block in front of us, exploding in front of a bank.

I braced for impact, throwing one arm over my patient, who was now giggling and gasping. The driver slammed on the brakes and we flew forward. My shoulder struck the wall but I managed to keep the stretcher from going airborne again. The patient groaned, sitting up.

Before we'd even settled on the tires, the Reaper forced the ambulance into reverse. The wild ride continued.


	30. 30 Cole

**30. Cole**

"Phone!" I snapped. There was a beep at my shoulder. "Call Z."

By some miracle, the voice command recognition worked over the sound of gunfire and the ambulance siren. As the phone rang, I fired three bolts into the backs of Reapers who'd turned to watch the ambulance's joy ride. Each body crumpled, twitching.

"Hey, Cole, that you?"

"Yea, Zeke." I ducked into an alley before any other Reapers could return fire.

"Excellent. Guess the phone's still working?"

"Zeke, I need you to call the cops. Get them to send everything they have to Archer and Main. The Reapers have turrets set up but the west side is clear."

"That's right near me. How many are there?"

"About thirty, maybe more." The corner of the wall I was sheltering behind exploded in a shower of shattered brick and shrapnel.

"What's going on?"

"Just make the call, Z. I'm a little busy right now."

"You got it. Be careful." He hung up. I gathered a charge in my hand, binding it tightly so it would explode on impact.

Diving from behind the wall, I lobbed the grenade into a group of three more Reapers and rolled to take cover behind a parked SUV. Bits of concrete rubble rained down. My cover vehicle shook as bullets impacted the engine block and passenger side doors. I crouched low and began to drain the batteries of the car behind me.

The next moment, I was flying backward through the air. A bullet must have pierced the fuel tank of the SUV, causing it to explode. I skidded to a halt in the middle of the road with zero cover and incoming fire from my left and right. Time to move.

I sprinted for the far side of the street, running straight toward a Reaper. Stance wide, he was firing his weapon wildly as he pivoted at the waist. I pushed electricity out from my hands into a wall of force, sweeping the car in front of me along the ground to crush the Reaper against the wall. His pinned body slouched but his weapon continued firing. My momentum carried me forward and I leaped from the sidewalk onto the roof of the car, springing up to grab a wide awning.

I swung my leg over the lip of the awning and was beginning to scramble up when the car I'd used as a springboard burst into flames. Smoke billowed upward, engulfing me. The gunfire stopped and I heard Reapers cheering up the street.

I fired a flurry of bolts through the smoke in the direction of the cheering before climbing off the burning remains of the awning. Moving from windowsill to windowsill, I reached the roof and rolled over the edge, panting.

The ambulance siren was still wailing. Anger flared in me at the thought of the Reapers having an ambulance. Ambulances were forces for good, tools for saving lives. These thugs were bent on destroying the city from the inside out and now that they had the perfect Trojan Horse: an ambulance. Surely they had a plan to wreak more havoc by masquerading as good guys. There were too few good guys left for me to let that happen.

With a quick glance over the roof's ledge I saw the ambulance up the street and heading my way. All civilians had long since fled. The quickest way to end this would be with a single massive blast to the ambulance, then go around and pick off the stationary turrets.

I forced as much of my charge into my hands as I could muster. The muscles of my arms quivered. I would have to make this one shot count. The Reapers on the street continued firing, most shots impacting to the left of my position. I slid further, sheltering behind a ventilation duct. It was just high enough that I could peek out from a crouch.

The street below was littered with debris, including the smoldering bodies of the two burning vehicles. Two blocks from me parked cars were being pushed to the side by the ambulance's blunt nose as it wove left and right, horn braying. Just a little closer. My shoulders ached but I held onto the powerful charge, my entire arm vibrating as I tightening my muscles.

I narrowed my eyes and waited. One shot.

The bullet storm from below was dying down. I studied the Reapers' movements. They worked in pairs. One squad had given up firing at me, instead watching the ambulance approach. Several others had split off to circle the building. I would be long gone before any of them managed to climb up. Stopping to pick them off would only give away my position.

The Reapers didn't work as well-trained units but at the same time there was something coherent and coordinated about their movements. This was definitely a directed attack, with a leader. I watched for hand signals and saw very few. Perhaps they were using radios.

The ambulance was a block away and snaking closer. I had enough energy bottled to explode the ambulance on impact. I drew a deep breath, preparing to stand and fire as quickly as I could.


	31. 31 Trish

**Please note **that things get bloody for the next few chapters. Not recommended breakfast or bedtime reading material.

* * *

><p><strong>31. Trish<strong>

The patient's slick black teeth snapped in the air, clicking together a hair's breadth from my hand. The patient was trying to bite me through a spit-flecked oxygen mask.

In an instant I switched from supporting his lower back to pinning his body against the stretcher with my shoulder. He pummeled my face and neck with both arms, oblivious to the gunshot wound in his arm. His legs kicked out, a scuffed tennis shoe aimed for my left ear.

My reactions were delayed by the haze of pain in my head but thankfully the ambulance swerved at just that moment, dumping us both to the cold metal floor. The patient landed on his injured arm and grunted, then emitted a low, warbling cry that was cut short as he... burped?

I watched in horror as a black, tarry-looking coat of vomit splashed against the inside of the oxygen mask, inches from my face. The smell of the fluid staining the corners of his mouth was horrific. Then, perversely, he began laughing again, chomping his teeth and rolling his wide, bloodshot eyes. His black-stained fingers swished through the air as he swiped at my face with his good arm. A second swipe caught me below the ear, gouging a jagged trench to my cheek.

I planted both palms squarely on his stomach and pushed.

He rolled, his back wedged against the stretcher's wheels. I clamored to my feet, grasping a wall for support. I needed a weapon but there was nothing, nothing at all. Various tools were crashing around in their storage cabinets as the driver took us through sudden swerves and stops, but these tools were useless: gloves and gauze and surgical masks and vials of antibiotic ointments. There wasn't so much as a metal bedpan. The stretcher was locked in place, same as the oxygen cylinder.

A hand, hooked like a claw, grabbed my ankle. Looking down, I saw the glistening, jagged white edge of what could have only been bone peeking through the raw skin at the elbow of the patient's outstretched arm. His nails, red with my blood, scrabbled against my jeans.

I drew up my foot and, shouting a guttural, meaningless cry that somehow gave voice to all of my anger and frustration and considerable fear, stomped down on that jagged bit of bone.

Over the siren and the insane burble-giggle of the patient and the matching laughter of the driver, I heard a wet snap.

I stomp again, my voice growing louder in my ears. Snap!

And again! I ground my heel into the now-unrecognizable pulp of the young man's forearm. The world swayed and tires squealed as the driver braked suddenly. My ribs roared in pain when I slammed sideways into the front wall of the compartment. Thankfully, I hadn't hit my head a second time.

"Trish!" Meryl's voice, usually so happy, was desperate and high-pitched. "Help me! I can't – "

Her voice was lost to a moist, gurgling cough and the swoosh of rustling fabric.

"Meryl? Is that –" I shouted. The engine revved. This time, I tried to brace my feet wide, one hand holding my bruised ribs, but I fell to my knees, once again face-to-face with the patient.

At some point, the young man had stop his giggling and begun coughing in earnest. His good hand pawed at the blackened oxygen mask. The rags of his other arm were soaked in blood and tar. His skin was completely pale. With that much blood loss, I was amazed he was awake. How much of that damage had I caused?

My stomach rolled. Beyond the smell, beyond the bitter taste of adrenaline, beyond the sight of that inhuman blood, beyond my utter exhaustion, it was the idea of a nurse, a person of aid, in an ambulance, a place of healing, stomping on the wounds of the injured. The animal part of my mind knew that it was a situation of "kill or be killed," understood this at the deep and most fundamental level, but my heart couldn't bear the fresh memory of bones snapping under my stomping foot.

I saw my knuckles whiten against the textured steel floor. Then I vomited, vision going gray. With each convulsion, pain jabbed my ribs. My arms trembled to support my weight. Blood dripped along a line from my ear to my neck, slick and sluggish. A chorus of gagging noises came from my attacker, bleeding out next to me. Something in the driver's seat giggled.

It took several moments for my stomach to empty completely. My vision began to clear with each ragged breath I drew. The world smelled bitter, like spit and stomach bile and blood. I swayed on my hands as the ambulance swerved again. Something cold brushed my elbow.

I pulled back, one hand reaching up to brush my hair from my face, the other forming a tight fist.

The patient was dead. His entire oxygen mask was black, his cheeks swollen and eyes rolled back, half-lidded. A thick trail of dark vomit trickled out of the mask over skin that was white with a faint blue cast.

He'd choked to death. If he'd been lucky – very lucky – he would have lost enough blood to fall unconscious before asphyxiating. My stomach knotted again, but there was nothing left in me. I hardly had the energy to stand, though stand I did, backing into the tiny metal front corner of the ambulance with my feet and arms wide, braced against the walls.

"Stop," I croaked quietly, knowing the gesture was futile. What good could my pleas accomplish? I was a powerless human begging to forces beyond entreaty. There was so little room for hope in Empire City after the blast; even less room for hope in the careening ambulance.

Still, I murmured, "Stop, stop already. He's dead."

"Oh, god," rose a moan from the front of the ambulance. "Oh, god. Oh, god! Ohgod ohgod ohgodohgod." Then the voice caught, somewhere between a hiccup and a screeching cackle, and I heard the driver's foot slam on the accelerator, and then, just as quickly, the brake. I stumbled but caught myself on the stretcher, swaying as we came to a halt.

"Trish?" I could barely hear the question with the siren's continued drone. "Trish, what's going on? Where am – " More coughing.

"Meryl! Meryl, are you okay?" I began to turn, trying to get a better look through the tiny window into the driving cabin. All I could see was a mass of curly red hair blocking the left side of the blur of the road through the windshield's spiderweb of cracks.

"Talk to me, Meryl." It was like a command and not unlike a prayer. I wished, not for the first time or the last, that I'd never convinced her to ride along, never asked her to leave the hospital where she'd been safe. I might not have been fit for a kill-or-be-killed world, but Meryl, with her freckles, her round face, and her soft heart, was even less so.

As I pulled myself level with the tiny, shattered window, I was expecting to see a struggle, maybe Meryl grabbing for the wheel or trying to subdue the crazed driver. I remembered hearing gunshots earlier, up close, and suddenly realized that she might have been shot, or might even now be struggling with her captor for control of the gun.

Instead, as I finally drew my eyes to the streaked reinforced glass, I saw Meryl hunched over the steering wheel, shivering. Sobbing. A rifle lay on the seat next to her, but she was alone.

"M... Meryl?" I swept my eyes across the front cabin again, trying to find a Reaper who wasn't there.

Meryl's head jerked up, looking left and right, her frizzy hair bobbing. I tapped the glass lightly, leaning forward.

"Meryl, please talk to me. I think you're in shock."

She twisted in the seat, craning her neck until her face filled the small window, framed in red ringlets. She stared at me, tears welling in the corners of her wide eyes. Then, she smiled.

Her teeth were black.

I would have vomited again, but I was beyond empty. I pounded a fist on the wall even as she was turning away from me, giggling and reaching to set the ambulance back into gear.

"This isn't you!" I shouted. My voice was weak, my knees buckling. A blackened hypodermic needle was rattling on the dashboard. A cupboard door banged open and shut somewhere behind me. Open and shut. My body quaked and trembled.

"Please, Meryl, you have to fight this!"

I glimpsed a flash of red out in the street. There was a faint sound of cheering just before Meryl's black-stained hand slammed into the centered of the steering wheel and the horned brayed in a single, obnoxious note: bwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. Then the engine revved again and it was all I could do to brace myself for the next series of halting jerks accompanied by loud crashing sounds and her crazed giggle. To the delight of its driver, the ambulance was repeatedly ramming something to both the left and right.

My pleas for Meryl had fallen on deaf ears.


	32. 32 Cole

**32. Cole**

There was a sudden rattle of gunfire from down the street to my right, shaking my concentration. A figure was shooting at the Reapers from the other direction, taking cover behind an ancient white pickup truck. Groaning, I dialed Zeke again.

"I thought you'd call back." The sound of gunfire filtered through the phone.

"Zeke, is that you down there?"

"Figured you could use some help."

"I told you to get the cops!"

"They're on their way. Meantime, you got me. Aww, shit, we got more incoming. By the bank, behind that bus."

Six Reapers, all armed with automatic rifles, were setting up camp behind a bus across from Zeke. I didn't have a good angle on them. Peering through the smoke, I saw a Reaper drop and the rest scatter. Zeke's cover fire was helping.

"Rollin', rollin', rollin'..." he hummed, punctuating the song with gunshots.

"Move 'em out!" Bang.

"Head 'em out." Bang. Bang.

"Get those doggies rollin'..."

I crouched at the roof's edge. "Zeke, are you singing the theme to _Rawhide_?"

"Hell yea, man. You ever see that show? Classic!"

"Clint Eastwood's not really my style."

"Whatever your style is, hurry it up. They're regrouping!"

Reapers swarmed forward, rushing toward Zeke.

I jumped on top of the vent and let loose my lightning in one tight packet, aiming for the center of the group. The energy impacted with the force of a rocket. The Reapers were blown away. So was the bus. And the front wall of the bank. I was drawing more fire from the other group, but at least Zeke was okay.

I cursed. Zeke had distracted me and I'd wasted my built-up charge on a bus and the wall of a bank. Now the ambulance was driving away at top speed in reverse. The driver may have been crazy, but even he had the sense to back away from a man wielding lightning. I was too drained to repeat the high-powered attack without recharging.

"Get to high ground, Z!" I shouted into the phone. "They've got turrets!"

I took cover again and shot quick bolts at the remaining Reapers in the street, giving Zeke a chance to clamor up a fire escape, handgun drawn. By the time he reached the roof, I had cleared the area. Red-clad bodies were piling up fast.

After a moment's hesitation, I raced over to Zeke. It would take too long to drop down to street level and get some more power from parked cars.

"Cole!" Zeke waved me over. He was crouched down, pulling a rectangular something out of a backpack.

I jumped across an alley and jogged over. I still heard gunfire, but it was distant. Maybe the cops finally had arrived.

"Batteries?" I asked, dropping to a crouch beside Zeke. Before he could answer, I'd already begun draining them. Warmth flooded my limbs and my fingers tingled. I flared up my hands as I gave Zeke a thumbs up.

"You look like hell. Are those bullet holes?"

"I'm fine. These batteries are just what the doctor ordered."

"Speaking of doctors, how are we going to get to the ambulance?" He asked.

I shook my head. "I can hit it from here, now that I'm charged. One clear shot should destroy it."

"What? You can't do that!"

"We'll never recover it in one piece at this rate. If the Reapers have it, they could use it as a Trojan horse."

"Cole, Trish is in that ambulance."

My body went numb. "What?"

"Trish is in the back of that ambulance! I found an EMT in the street back there, surfer-looking dude. He was driving the ambulance when it got carjacked by the Reapers."

"Trish is in the ambulance?"

"That's what I'm saying!"

I stared blankly. I had nearly destroyed the ambulance with my girlfriend trapped inside.

Zeke reached over to grab my shoulder and then hesitated, withdrawing as if the gesture had been a dangerous idea. "Don't worry, man. I think I've got a plan to get her out, but I'm going to need your help."


	33. 33 Zeke

**33. Zeke**

Cole was too stunned to listen to my plan the first time through. I snapped my fingers in front of his face.

"C'mon, man, focus! Your girl's down there!"

His face remained slack. "There's nothing I can do, Zeke. If I fire on the ambulance, it could explode."

"I already thought about that. Listen to me again: you're going to create a distraction. Get the attention of the ambulance driver. Corral him my way and then get him to slow down. I'll blow out the tires. Then we rush the ambulance and get her."

He squinted. "An ambush?"

I nodded. You'd think he'd never seen a western before. Hamstringing the enemy from a distance is classic cowboys and indians.

Then something clicked and I saw his jaw set with grim resolve. "Alright. Where we gonna do this?"

"As far away from those turrets as possible." I gestured to a side street across from the remains of the bank. "I figure over there is as good a place as any. Can you get the ambulance to come down here again?"

"I can make it so he has no choice. Get into place. Don't break cover for anything; this fight is getting serious."

It wasn't the turrets or the dozens of bullet holes I saw in his clothes that made things serious; Cole was taking the attack personally because they had his girl. I knew better than to hope the hostage situation wouldn't impair his judgment; the air around him was sizzling with sparks. Standing ten feet from him, my skin felt dry, tingling with static. As I watched him drop off the roof, I found myself fearing his restraint would snap, that he was on the edge of a very destructive rampage.

After the thud of impact from the alley below, I heard a startled shout. There was a flash of light and the yell was cut short. Running feet slammed pavement. A few more bursts of light silenced these as well.

My phone rang again. I let it pick up automatically, making my way to the edge of the building.

"Move," Cole said and hung up.

With the streets cleared below, I headed back down the fire escape I'd just climbed. I left drained batteries behind. Valuable as they were, this was no time to lug them around.

There were at least twelve Reapers lying along the street and sidewalk and another four in the alley by the fire escape, all dead or dying. Earlier I'd only managed to hit two with my revolver, three at the most. I was suddenly glad Cole was on my side. His cold efficiency was frightening. I jogged past the destruction, checking and reloading my firearm. With only six shots before I'd have to reload, each bullet counted.

A crater gouged the road in front of the bank's smoldering remains: perfect. It was deep enough to serve as a roadblock, so long as Cole got the ambulance to turn down this street. I moved back to the corner, surveying the savaged landscape.

"Cole, we got a problem. How's the ambulance going to get through to here with these cars in the way?"

Through the sound of explosions and turret gunfire, he was curt: "Deal with it."

What could I do? I had no super-powers. I did have my revolver, about forty loose rounds, and a big hole in the ground. And a beer gut. I'd left two or three road flares in my backpack, up with the dead batteries on the roof, but an ambulance joy-riding Reaper wasn't likely to follow any path I marked out anyway. I had to physically funnel the ambulance to where we needed it to be. But there were cars blocking the way.

I reached into my pockets, evaluating the last of my resources at hand. Lint, some quarters, some arcade tokens... I also had my pocket knife, attached to my keys.

The keys went to one of the very few possessions left me from before the blast: my truck. Bessie and I had been through a lot together, from outrunning cops and transporting furniture to hauling smaller cars out of snow banks. Today I was going to ask more of her than ever and it wasn't going to be pretty. As I walked back to the truck, keeping an eye out for stray Reapers, I grinned. Perhaps I did have the power to do this by brute force after all.

I climbed in and patted the dashboard, looking up at the cars littering the deserted street. Time to play snowplow. "C'mon, Bessie. Let's get these doggies rollin'."

* * *

><p>I've added a brief prologue before chapter one, if anyone is interested to read it. It seems like the beginning of this story gets a lot of hits but few people read beyond the first chapter or two, which makes me think I should have gotten to this action faster...<p> 


	34. 34 Cole

**34. Cole**

The thought of Trish held captive was distracting enough without Zeke calling in every five seconds to see how I was doing.

I wasn't doing well. Trish's phone didn't pick up. Following the sound of the siren, I found the ambulance weaving tight circles in a mostly-deserted mall parking lot. The white-clad Reaper was still driving one-handed, firing his gun through the windshield with the other. My first instinct was to wait for him to run out of ammunition. It had to happen sometime. Then it would be my job to move him toward Zeke's trap by convincing him that I was trying to explode his vehicle... without actually exploding the vehicle. Or even letting it come to any danger at all. Hopefully, Trish could wait it out in the back of the ambulance. I imagined her unconscious body slamming into walls lined with metal cabinets. Were there seat belts in the backs of ambulances? Best not to think of it.

I had just settled on my heels at the apex of the mall's roof when a swarm of Reapers appeared down the road, apparently following the sound of the ambulance siren. It was going to be harder to corral the ambulance if the driver had backup. I fired a few tight, low-power bolts at the ambulance's roof, aiming for the lights despite the constant swerving. The siren screeched and then died when the third spark impacted. If the driver heard the siren's last warble over the sound of his own insanity, he didn't show it. His one-handed gunfire continued. The lights continued flashing. Maybe the ambulance would run out of gas and he'd get bored and join his friends. Or maybe he'd get bored and decide to decorate the ambulance with a thousand beautiful bullet holes. Agitation set my hands sparking again. There were too many ways this could go wrong.

Scanning the area that would soon be a battlefield, I was considering my approach when another cluster of Reapers appeared two blocks away, to the east. Where were they all coming from? Where were the cops? Even though I'd killed the siren, two groups were heading this way. At least they couldn't bring turrets, not at that pace. Could they?

There was a tiny flash of light from the shoulder of one of the nearest Reapers, still two blocks away. A black object flew toward the parking lot, trailing a gray cloud of smoke as it veered left. The instant it disappeared into a row of parked vehicles, there was an explosion. Glass shattered in a ball of flames. A car door flew into the air. Car alarms howled.

The ambulance screeched to a halt, half the parking lot away, before weaving between rows of parked cars in reverse.

Down the street, two more Reapers were hoisting the barrels of massive guns to their shoulders in preparation to fire another round of rocket-propelled grenades. What were they aiming for?

Wait. Rocket-propelled grenades? Bad days just seemed to get worse.

I needed to end things immediately, here. No complicated ambush strategies, just a light show resting on the hope the driver got the message. It would need to be a big light show to compete with the cars that were now exploding at regular intervals at the far end of the parking lot, but I was more than ready to let loose with everything I had.

I dropped to the ground, going sparky. My craters could be impressive, but the driver was busy slaloming between light poles two lanes away. I ran straight for the ambulance, letting lightning play loose and fast over my skin.

I arrived at the entrance of the lane just as the driver – dressed in white, not the typical Reaper red – pulled the ambulance around the opposite end. He – no, it was a female Reaper – stopped firing _her_ gun. Half a football field away, I heard her laughter, high and cackling. She pulled in her gun arm to grip the steering wheel with both hands. The engine roared to life and the ambulance leaped forward, bearing down on me.

Ambulances may be more or less a steel boxes on wheels, but they have the horsepower and tight handling to get where they need to go fast. I stood my ground, bracing for impact by folding my reserve energy around my body.

When the ambulance was twenty car-lengths away, I saw a curved gray line of smoke etched into the blue sky, high but falling fast. The grenade's arcing trajectory would bring it raining down directly onto the ambulance.

I sprinted forward. The driver leaned over the wheel, staring me down and laughing. Playing chicken with a speeding vehicle was one thing, but my plan was about to take stupidity to new heights. Eyes locked upward on the grenade, I curled my fingers into fists and channeled the energy I had planned to use as a body-wide shield into my leg muscles. My tendons hummed with tension, muscles aching. I was going to have to jump to reach the grenade in time.

In the time it took me to sprint two long strides, the ambulance had halved the distance between us. I could hear the whistle of the descending grenade.

Half a second passed. I could see the specks of dead insects marring the ambulance's front bumper. The Reaper's teeth glistened black.

Another leaping step. In the flashing red and white light, shards of windshield glass glittered on the dash. There was a smell of burnt tire rubber.

I planted both my feet and bent my knees, coiling to spring up and forward. If I was going to deflect the falling grenade in mid-air, timing was everything.

The Reaper threw back her head, laughing. There was a small window behind the driver's seat, looking into the rear of the ambulance. Across the window was a spray of short, chestnut-brown hair.

Trish!

My knees locked. I lost what little control I had over the electricity. Lightning flew from my hands, elbows, shoulders and knees. The few parked cars on either side rocked backward.

Half a car-length away, the ambulance kept coming.

Too late, I tried to jump onto its hood. With dual meaty snaps, the bumper struck my shins. I tucked my arms in. As the ambulance swerved, I slid sideways off the narrow hood. Lights flashing, the ambulance skidded away.

Over the sound of the Reaper's laughter and the roaring engine came an increasingly high-pitched whine. I looked up into the face of a grenade.


	35. 35 Cole

**35. Cole**

Something metallic was digging into my ribs, but I didn't want to open my eyes. There was too much pain. In both ears I heard whispering. Many voices were murmuring, excited and urgent. There was a faint breeze.

I squinted, opened my eyelids a sliver. The world was a thick, glowing bank of green fog. I could just see that I was wedged between a van and a car. I twisted my body and slid fully to the ground, legs exploding pain. The green fog rushed in, pulsing in time with the pain. I blinked once, twice, trying to clear the wisps of green. The denser patches almost looked like people. Beneath the voices, I heard a faint, rapid tapping. Frowning, I shut my eyes and tried to focus on that noise as it echoed from several directions.

I sent out a pulse and, finding several automobile batteries closeby, drained each. I moved from vehicle to vehicle on my hands in a half-crawl, half-slide. I passed through vague, shifting green shapes and tried to ignore their insistent, ghostly voices. With each recharge, the mist faded and the faint tapping noise resolved into the _rat-a-tat_ of automatic gunfire, sharp but somehow distant. I saw my entire body was charred, streaked with grenade smoke. The ambulance had broken both my legs, but they had already begun to heal. I leaned against a compact car, panting with exhaustion. I'd hardly crawled thirty feet. Eyes closed, I felt little sparks flashing back and forth across my many wounds, soothing aches and re-knitting bone. I guess stranger things have happened.

I was sinking back into numb unconsciousness, pleased that the voices were falling silent, when the squeal of rubber on asphalt rang out, shrill and close. Peering over the hood the car, I saw the ambulance weaving wide arcs between parked cars, front fender dented but still moving a high speed. The sound of metallic hammering rang out as bullets dinged its side. The sound set my heart racing. To the right, two groups of about ten Reapers each were converging on the entrance to the parking lot. They formed a red wall bristling with gun barrels. Most of the guns were tracking the ambulance, firing relentlessly. Either they hadn't seen who had control of the ambulance or they didn't care about firing on their own man.

I was tired, bone-tired. But Trish was counting on me. Injuries be damned, I wasn't going to let her down. Amazingly, as I tucked my legs in under myself, I found they held my weight, if painfully. I shuffled forward in a crouched half-step, hands sliding on the car to brace myself. My electric reserves were completely empty, all charge having flowed to my injuries. But I was mobile.

I moved down one long row of parked cars in a crouch, draining batteries as I went. I wanted to flank the group of Reapers at the lot entrance but there wasn't much cover. As I sidled up to the front of a blue Toyota, placing my palm on the hood to pick up a little extra voltage, one of the Reapers whistled an alarm call. The attention of the group turned to me.

Windshield glass rained down in small, jagged shards. Cursing, I filled both fists with energy and stood, firing into the group of Reapers. Red-hot pain shot through my legs but I kept my balance. A pair of figures fell immediately to two lucky head shocks. Instead of scattering, the rest held their ground, some still facing the ambulance, which was now circling the back of the parking lot, a small, speeding target.

Another grenade went up in a high arc. I crouched behind the Toyota again, legs burning and skin tingling with the memory of recent bullet wounds. As the grenade descended I pushed forward a wall of energy, deflecting the projectile back toward the cluster of Reapers. It exploded a few feet short of the group, driving the nearest men backward and scattering the rest. I caught a glimpse of two upright metal shields. Unbelievably, they were setting up more turrets.

The air hummed and whistled as bullets whizzed over my head. I fired back a quick series of larger blasts. The Toyota was beginning to smoke. After two long, crouched steps, I dove for the next car, advancing on the Reapers' flank. I took a few hits but they healed as I pulled from the car's battery with my right hand and fired poorly-aimed shots with my left.

The blue Toyota burst into flames, a charred metal carcass leaking wisps of smoke and tongues of flame. Through the smoke I saw the ambulance's flashing red and white lights. The driver had swung around the opposite end of the lot, pulling directly into the turret's line of sight.

A piercing shriek of laughter cut through the gunfire. "Yes! Nooooo! Yes! Yes, yes!" crowed the Reaper before honking the ambulance horn. The engine revved. If the ambulance rammed the scattered group, the turrets would be destroyed. Then I could chase the vehicle into Zeke's trap.

Despite its squealing tires and batshit-insane driver, I saw that the ambulance would never make it to the turret. The living wall of red was re-assembling. Three men in front kneeled, facing the ambulance and lifting rocket-propelled grenade launchers to their shoulders. Their neighbors were loading their rifles, while others let fly with automatics. Those on my side continued firing through the remains of my cover.

I stood up, roaring in anger. Lightning flared white-hot in a loop from my shoulders to my hands. I shoved a portion of the energy outward. The car rolled in front of me as a shield until a grenade sent it spinning.

Arms down and palms out, I set the lightning free. Between intense flashes of white, the remaining dozen Reapers were lit red by the ambulance's emergency lights, approaching from the left. With each successive flash, fewer Reapers were standing.

I walked toward the group, free-flowing energy blanketing my numbed mind with its white intensity. I fired. Again. Again. Again. Each bolt drained me. With each measured step, my head felt more empty of energy and more crowded with whispers. The quiet murmur had become the hum of a thousand chattering voices, the sound of a busy party just this side of the grave. I took another step forward. Two rocket-powered grenades flew in opposite directions, one impacting the mall storefront and the other sailing skyward and detonating in the air. The sound of their explosions was muffled; my ears were now full of voices. Some were the shouts of the few remaining Reapers, but many were the voices of the dead. I saw the outlines of green ghosts swarming the parking lot, some sticking to the bodies of dead Reapers, others pushing shopping carts or carrying children on their shoulders. Still others laid on the ground, vomiting brilliant green tar. I waded through the ghosts like a tower of lightning in a cold mist.

Twenty seconds of bullets bearing down on me. Twenty seconds of steady walking into a wall of death. All I saw was green ghosts, red flashing lights, and bursts of white lighting. All I felt was _weary_. Cold fear for Trish, and a deep-seated weariness. Men collapsed before me like dead grass in a windstorm. Weapons clattered to the ground, still firing as dead fingers twitched in dead hands.

The ambulance was billowing smoke as it barreled down on the group from my left. The Reaper driving the ambulance was no longer laughing. Perhaps she was some sort of squad leader, wearing white instead of red. Looking more carefully at her pale skin and mass of curly red hair, I saw the face of what once had been a beautiful young woman, a nurse. As I watched, she was shot in the throat, leaving a pulsing, bubbling mesh of red meat and black tar. She raised a fist to her mouth, biting at her fingers. There was a uniformed ghost sitting beside her, reporting into a translucent CB radio.

I sidestepped as the ambulance rolled over the bodies that had been gasping at my knees. The last Reaper standing was lifted from his feet and driven into the turrets before crumpling, crushed under the tires. Blood splattered against the red cross emblazoned on the ambulance hood. The turrets were cast aside, bent and useless.

I raised my right arm, trembling. I hoped I had enough energy left to blow out a tire. I squared my shoulders in an attempt to steady my shaky aim. The ambulance fled the parking lot exit, crashing through a low-hanging sign.

From behind, the concussive blast of a grenade exploding lifted me from the ground. I was just barely conscious of my body sailing forward into the street. Slamming into the side of a parked semi-truck, my vision went black. My ears rang as I slid to the ground. My fingers gripped asphalt, cold and wet. I opened myself, pulling for whatever energy might be there. Finding the truck's battery, I drained it dry in an instant. The ghostly roar of voices quieted to a steady hum.

The feeble current brought in reports from the parts of my body that had gone numb. Everything was in pain, a deep, tired ache. The lids of my eyes hurt as I lifted them. The world was tinted gray. From one eye, I saw a steady red flash just down the road through a haze of mist. The ambulance was on its side, halfway up a fire hydrant that was spraying water everywhere. The body of the dead lady-Reaper hung out the driver's side window, face mercifully covered by a blood-stained scrap of her lab coat.

"Trish? Trish!" I croaked. It was a weak yell, closer to a groan. I clutched my side, wheezing. The stretch of cold pavement to the nearest undrained car battery loomed, seeming to fall away a mile into the distance. The ambulance might as well have been on the Moon. Surely more Reapers were on their way. Coughing up blood, I somehow managed to get my cell phone to dial Zeke.

"Z, get over here. Mall... mall at Fifth and Archer."

"On my way, brother."

The world was dim and gray and the voices were murmuring. Water from the hydrant was pooling everywhere. I began a slow crawl toward the overturned ambulance.

* * *

><p>Just a bit more to go before we let Cole enjoy the relative peace and quiet of the entire inFAMOUS game plot. If you've made it this far, why not drop a comment in the meantime? Thanks!<p> 


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